


Masters of Ink

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Angst, Banter, Body Modification, Cheating, Competition-Set Fic, Desire, Developing Relationship, Disability, Falling In Love, Feels, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Married John, Past Drug Addiction, Pining, Requited Love, Sex, Slow Burn, Smoking, Tattoo Artist John, Tattoo Artist Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-03-11 02:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: John has a triple-coiled tattoo machine in his hand and a row of inks at the ready. He has gloves on, a willing client in front of him, and a detailed stencil. He is ready to win this bloody competition. Except he’s competing against Sherlock Holmes...First-meeting-on-a-reality-show AU, Ink Master edition! There is expert tattooing, slightly less expert flirting, and two men falling hard. But John is married, and they can’t all win.





	1. Tradition (John)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscordantWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/gifts).



> Written for Discordantwords, who won me in the fandomlovespuertorico auction. 
> 
> The competition in this fic is based on the shows ‘Tattoo Artist of the Year’ and ‘Ink Master’. 
> 
> **Warnings: Detailed descriptions of tattooing - including graphic descriptions of blood, skin, and scars. References to past drug use, addiction, self-harm. Explicit cheating.**
> 
> Thanks go to Rainstormdragon for betaing and J.M.Mee for Brit-Picking and the artwork. You are brilliant! <3

 

 

John unlocks his shop door and flips the sign. It’s 9am - AGRA tattoo is open for business. 

Mary’s coming down the stairs with Rosie wiggling in her arms and a handbag slung over her shoulder. Rosie’s babbling, “Da da da,” and Mary says, as she walks by, “Don’t forget that back piece is coming in for a consultation at noon.” 

“I won’t,” John says, already tired somehow. 

Mary leaves, and John looks back at the drawing of a traditional eagle he prepared last night. He has tattooed dozens of these. Like the endless parade of daggers, roses, swallows, and snakes he’s done over the past few years, he could tattoo one in his sleep. That’s why he signed up when Mike asked him. To finally do something else. And he did, god, he got to… 

The door chimes with the first client of the day. It’s a burly man with several tattoos and eyes that pass right over John when he says, “I’m here for John Watson?” 

“That would be me.” John pushes himself up from his low chair and uses his cane to walk over to him. It’s fine. John knows what he looks like. Or what he _doesn’t_ look like – that’s why no one ever assumes he’s the artist. John shakes the bloke’s hand and says, “I’m just setting up. Take a seat and we can start in five, yeah?” 

It’s been three months since the competition. Three months in which John hasn’t tattooed anything vaguely exciting. Three months since John saw _him_ , as well. He wasn’t even in the damn Channel 4 teaser - John checked. 

_Sherlock Holmes._

 

\---

 

Episode One

John walks into the film studio pulling an aluminium travel case behind him with his tattoo machines, needles, and all of his inks. 

There are several other tattoo artists already milling about. John doesn’t recognise any of them, but he can spot massively stretched ears alongside bright face tattoos, and something in his spine instantly relaxes. The fact that he’s using a cane doesn’t matter for shit when someone’s got stretched nostrils with neon green plugs in there. 

John smiles at the man and gets an “Hiya, I’m Raz,’ back. John nods. 

“John Watson.” 

The studio is large, more so than he’d thought it would be. It consists of a small stage with two rows of tall chairs in front of it, and then a wide open space with a long table in the middle, and a series of walled-off spaces on both sides, built to emulate their various tattoo shops. John walks alongside them until he finds the space with his name on it – “JOHN WATSON, AGRA TATTOO” and leaves his travel case there. 

A woman with brown hair and black henna-inspired face work comes over from her little shop across the studio and says, “Janine, hello. What’s your specialty?” 

“Old school, me.” 

There is another bloke with multiple piercings through his nose and lips as well as heavy scarification on his cheeks, who smiles eagerly and says as he walks up, “Wiggins.” 

John shakes both their hands. “I’m John Watson from AGRA Tattoo.” 

Janine tilts her head towards her own sign. “I’m over at Baksheesh Ink in Clapham.” 

“Right, yeah!” John has heard about that shop. 

“So is ‘Bridge.” Janine motions towards a young bloke with thin dagger outlines tattooed on both of his arms who is setting up as well.

He shouts, “I’m Bainbridge, hiya!” 

Looking around the room, John can see flashes of tattoos everywhere. _Everyone’s_ heavily covered. There’s an Asian woman with a full tea-themed sleeve in neo traditional colour dragging in a wooden case - “Soo Lin Yao,” she says when he meets her eyes.

“John Watson.” He smiles. 

There’s a heavy set bloke with pristine black and grey London Underground-themed sleeves who introduces himself as, “Hello, I’m Howard.” 

And then a blonde woman with a star-pattern of microdermal piercings under her collar bones who says, “Sarah, from Locum tattoo.” 

They’re all chatting awkwardly. John hears a lot of “Where you from?” and “What shop you work at?” and “Easy journey down?” 

Away from the others, there is a man leaning back against the wall with his hands steepled and his eyes closed. John knows who _that_ is. He’s never met him, but he’s seen him in the magazines. John’s even checked his website once or twice to look at his work. ‘The Science of Tattooing’ - really, he sounds like a complete prat. One who’s world famous in the business though. _Sherlock Holmes_.

He’s not exactly making the best first impression, standing there like he can’t be bothered to meet anyone. But then, Holmes is known to be eccentric. He looks like it, too. Most of the artists are dressed in various street and punk styles, but he is wearing tightly fitted trousers and a purple shirt that is opened a button or two too low. It reveals the beginning of a complicated dotwork piece on his chest. 

John considers introducing himself. He’s not sure whether Holmes is sleeping, or meditating, or what. He has stretched ears, John can see, with simple black plugs that match his wild curls. Besides those, his face is completely bare. 

John hesitantly walks closer, his cane gently tapping on the linoleum floor. When he’s near enough, Sherlock’s eyes flick up at him. “You are wondering why I am here.” 

“I... um. I was.” John can’t imagine that he’s in desperate need to get his name out there any more than it already is. Or to win the prize money at the end of this. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock smiles briefly. It makes his face instantly seem younger and more boyish somehow. “So am I.” 

John laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, likewise.” Why did he even say yes to this? To be on _TV_ , of all things. 

The production assistant speaks up. “Everyone, take your seats, please?”

They’re all directed to the tall chairs. John is assigned to one in the front. He can just manage to push himself onto it, then leans his cane next to his leg and hopes it won’t come clattering down. Looking around, he’s not sure they wanted him here because it’s easier for him to get on, or because they can do a nice zoom on his cane. John’s got no patience for playing the poor veteran card, though. He’s here to show that he can tattoo, just like the others are. 

A woman with purple streaks in her hair is directed to sit next to him. She has a bridge piercing with metal spikes sticking out on both sides. Her neck and cheekbones are tattooed with a delicate network of black and grey flowers. She laughs nervously, tucks her hair behind her ears, and says, “Hi! I’m Molly. Molly Hooper.” 

John nods. “John Watson.” 

She looks at his leg. “Are you the army doctor?” 

“I was.” John’s not much in the mood to talk about that on camera. 

“I’m a trained mortician,” she replies. “I only got into tattooing a couple of years ago actually.” 

“A mortician?” John casually chats with her while they wait for them to set up the cameras. 

Sherlock is on the back row, behind John. Raz with the green nostrils is as well, along with the blonde woman – Sarah something? - Wiggins, and the dagger tattoo one also from Baksheesh tattoo. Next to Molly is Soo Lin with the tea sleeve, then Janine, and lastly the tube one, Howard. 

Once the camera operator is happy with the setup, she motions at someone else with a headset, who says, “Silence please! And... we’re rolling in three, two, one!” 

Mike walks out onto their little stage, and the cameras turn towards him. “Welcome, contestants!”

It’s good to see him. Mike wears bone stretches in his ears and has a hole in his lower lip with a large wooden plug. It makes his smile seem crooked, but even more genuine when he says, “We’ve searched the nation to find ten titans of tattooing. Ten professional, award-winning, ridiculously talented artists, who all believe they’ve got what it takes.” 

He doesn’t seem to be as nervous as John thought he might be. Other than the odd guest appearance on some other tattoo shows, this is Mike’s first time in front of the cameras as well. John makes sure to smile at him while he continues his spiel.

“You are competing for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’!” 

A hundred thousand quid. John could really use some of that. But then, who couldn’t? Everyone who’s got their own shop is still paying it off, likely. Running your own business is bloody expensive, especially with London property prices. 

“It is my honour to introduce the other two judges. With sixteen years of experience tattooing world-wide, Irene _‘The Woman’_ is an industry goddess.” 

Irene Adler walks in to impressed sounds from those around him. John’s seen her in the magazines as well, of course. She’s known for being a pin-up model alongside being a great artist. She’s in a sleek black dress, with bright red lips, and she seems entirely at ease with being filmed. 

“And our second judge, Jim Moriarty, is best known for ‘Tattoo Mistakes - Jim Fixes It’, where he is the cover-up specialist in chief, as well as his recent guest spot in the Tower of London.” 

John tried to watch that show once and gave up after ten minutes. He doesn’t like Jim much, nor his flashy tattooing. He is in a full dress suit though - John’s starting to feel a bit underdressed. 

Irene takes over, “And our third judge is best known as the owner of St. Bartholomew’s shop here in London. He is _the_ industry standard when it comes to old school and traditional tattooing... Mike Stamford!” 

John interned at St. Bartholomew’s, after he came back to London. He never thought he’d be a tattoo artist, but then Mike was there for him, right when John needed it the most. So that’s why he’s here, yeah? John shares another look with Mike. 

To do good by him. 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

“It’s time to reveal the first of today’s challenges.” Mike smiles into the cameras. 

John sits down in his little shop. His tattooing bench has acquired an unknown bump under a white sheet that vaguely smells like a butcher’s, so he can guess what they’re about to do. 

“We’re taking you back to the basics. Traditionally, apprentices would use _pig skin_ to practice on, because it’s considered the closest thing to human flesh.” 

There are some gasps of surprise. John’s not bothered, though. What else did they think it was going to be? He pulls the sheet off to reveal a chunk of dead pig, skin and all.

Janine, across from him in the row of small shops, makes a face, then shouts to Bainbridge, “Not very halal, this.” 

It makes him laugh. “Don’t have to eat it, at least.” 

Raz, in the back, yells, “Aw, I’m a vegan, man!” 

John has tattooed on pig skin before, when he just started out. On oranges as well. Melons, once. But really, tattooing on himself was easier, or on anyone else willing. Mike’s got a tattoo of John’s, and Mary has several. Like John, she’s nearly completely covered. 

“You’ve got three hours to design and execute a tattoo,” Mike instructs. “It can be anything of your choice; we are giving you total free rein. We just want to see you nail it. Show us what you’re really good at.” 

John’s eye falls on Sherlock, who seems completely unimpressed with the challenge. So is Molly, she’s already spanning off bits of the pig skin with cling film to ensure a clean workspace. 

Yeah, most tattoo artists have seen worse than a bit of dead pig, haven’t they? 

Mike counts down, “Three, two, one... Start your tattoos!”

John looks at the chunk of flesh in front of him. It should be easy enough. He decides to keep it simple, so after shaving off the scattering of pale hairs, he prepares his standard dual-coiled tattoo machine and starts free-handing an anchor and some roses. Janine is making a stencil, John sees. He can draw one of these easily by hand though, so he doesn’t bother. 

The buzzing of the tattoo machines starts all around, and John gets going as well. It is an odd sensation to tattoo something that cold and unwieldy again. It’s dead skin, thicker than a human’s, so the ink settles differently than he’s used to. John’s glad that he didn’t try for anything overly complicated. He’ll just outline it well, add enough colour, and let it speak for itself. 

It’s worse to know that the cameras are constantly rolling. John doesn’t mind the occasional conversations going on behind him; it’s just the idea that he never knows when they’ll be filming him. Or what they’re looking at. 

The space is set up well though. They’ve all got their own small shop with a tattooing bench and enough space to move around, so they’re not as packed together as John thought ten artists in one room might be. The downside of that is that he can’t see the artists further down at all. Some are wandering around and having peeks at each other’s tattooing already, but John’s not that bothered. He’ll focus on his own work first. 

He always liked it, tattooing. There’s something calming about it. 

After two hours, John does get up to stretch his aching leg and walks a circle around the room. It’s more necessity than curiosity, but John catches a glimpse of people’s tattooing here and there. 

Soo Lin’s got a whole row of coloured inks standing at the ready. Janine’s doing something cartoony and new school-looking. Sherlock is working on a small design with a lot of detail. 

John sits back down and sets to finishing his piece, and in all, the times passes by quickly enough. John’s [anchor and roses tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdaCYKUAF-w/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is done with about ten minutes to spare. 

He rolls his shoulders and ignores the tension radiating from his leg. This chair’s higher than the one at home, and he can already feel tonight is going to be hell because of it. He didn’t want to start bothering with that right in front of the cameras, but once they’re off, John thinks he’ll lower his chair so he can sit easier tomorrow. 

“Three, two, one... Tattoo machines down!”

All right then. 

The judges come around to each of them with the cameras in tow and have a look at their work. John tries to see what the others did, or at least hear their critiques. Raz did some lettering, and he gets a question from Mike, “You’re a self-taught tattoo artist?” 

“Yeah, I started off with graffiti, and then went into script.” 

Mike says, “I like the use of colour in this. It’s solid, but maybe a bit too easy.” 

Sarah did something with watercolour. Then it’s up to Howard, who tattooed a shaky steam train. 

Wiggins did a portrait of Jesus, apparently. Irene’s critique is, “It’s a too dark on the face; you should have used softer grey.” 

“I don’t think you should rush faces,” Mike adds. “That’s probably where the time limit let you down.” 

Sherlock did [a realistic shell](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdkUnGVgpD1/?taken-by=j.m.mee), which is something John never would have chosen for this challenge, but apparently it worked for him because Irene sounds genuinely impressed when she says, “That is a _beautiful_ tattoo, Sherlock. It almost looks real.” 

Soo Lin tattooed a mandala. Molly’s design was too big.

And then they’re up to John. He’s not nervous - it’s solid work, and he knows it. Mike looks at the tattoo and comments, “I think you absolutely understood what the challenge was and didn’t overdesign.” 

Right. Yeah. John nods. 

Irene adds, “A nice piece, John.” 

Next they’re off to Janine, who tattooed [a pig’s foot holding a hatchet](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdciKsjAWO6/?taken-by=j.m.mee). Janine says, “I thought the pig might like a little revenge.” 

It makes them laugh. Jim especially, he says, “Ooooh, I imagine he would!” 

Irene concurs, “Great idea, and it looks perfect.” 

Bainbridge is last. He tattooed [a hand in a jar](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bdr0XyzF5fF/?taken-by=j.m.mee). They’re not as positive there; John can hear Jim say in his sing-song voice, “I’m _not impre-e-essed!"_

Then Mike tells them, “Now we will briefly deliberate. The winner of this flash challenge will be allowed to pair up our canvasses with the artists for the elimination challenge tomorrow.” 

That’s probably a good advantage to have. John cleans up his workspace while he’s waiting. 

It takes a few minutes where the judges talk into the cameras. Afterwards, they return to inform them, “Today’s winner is…” Jim grins widely. “Janine!” 

Janine’s eyes light up. “All right!” 

“It was a fun new school design, and it corresponded very well with the theme,” Irene says. 

Mike tells Janine, “As your reward, you will be able to decide who works with which canvas tomorrow.” She smiles speculatively, and Mike continues, “For now, we’re going back to the hotel so we’re well-rested tomorrow for our next challenge.” 

John waits until the other contestants have headed for the door. When he’s sure that the cameras are turned away and they’re recording the other contestants leaving, John lifts his chair, places it sideways on his tattoo bench, and tries to figure out how to lower the damn seat. 

It’s a bit of a struggle. John doesn’t notice that someone has walked up until he hears Sherlock Holmes’ voice behind him. 

“It was approximately fourteen centimetres too high for your leg to lean down comfortably.”

He reaches out to help, so John holds the chair steady while Sherlock pulls the lever back and lowers it. John turns the chair around again as soon as he’s done and puts it back, though. He doesn’t need help to change a chair’s height - Christ, he’s not some invalid. Also, _fourteen centimetres?_

Sherlock swoops off, so John’s left looking at his back, wondering how on earth Sherlock ever noticed that it was bothering him. Or what he’s playing at, coming over to help like that. 

Luckily, it’s only a short walk back to the hotel from the studio, because his leg is throbbing now. John refuses an invitation from Sarah to eat with the rest of them in the hotel’s restaurant, and instead accepts the voucher for room service a production assistant gives him. 

As soon as he’s in his room, John runs a bath. 

He’s been living with his leg for so long now that he doesn’t always realise how the real world works anymore. How everyone just walks everywhere like it’s nothing, too. At home, everything around him is just right – pillows by the sofa, his chair, the height of his bench. He’s used to working in his own shop, too, with a supply of pills handy when needed, and cold and hot compresses just a few steps away. 

Knowing that his every move is being filmed doesn’t help much, either. 

But he’ll get through it. Really, the truth is that he was craving a bit of a challenge. Now that he’s in the competition, John wants to _win_ this thing. 

Even if he has to sit in a bloody bath at seven in the evening, massaging his leg. 

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

They’re all back in the studio by ten the next morning. 

John is directed to sit on the second row of the tall chairs today. He’s not sure if that’s a subtle comment on how good he looks on camera or what, but he likes it better. He doesn’t feel like he’s on display as much. The atmosphere has changed from the polite hellos of yesterday as well. Now most of them seem to be happily chatting while they’re waiting for production to get their arses in gear. 

“So Oriental’s your speciality?” Janine asks Soo Lin. 

She replies quietly, “Yes, I learned to tattoo in China.” 

Raz is next to Bainbridge, and Wiggins is leaning over their shoulders while Raz shows them all something on his phone. “I’ve always wanted to try that,” Bainbridge says wistfully. 

“Come along next time!” Raz says, “I did that wall from the side of the tracks, 3am. It was dope man, fuckin’ dope.” 

Howard is listening to them and nodding along. “The District Line is generally quiet at night, except for planned works. There is a schedule posted every week on certain forums actually, did you know-” 

“-Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition at the Tate Modern,” Sarah is saying to Molly nearby. 

Sherlock is sitting next to Molly today, but he is clearly more interested in checking his phone, and he mostly misses Molly’s prompt to include him in the conversation. “Do you have a favourite museum in London for tattoo inspiration, Sherlock?” 

“Hunterian,” he says without looking up from his phone. 

John bursts out into a laugh.

Sherlock turns around. His eyes pierce John. “Funny?” 

“No, no, I’ve been.” It’s right by the Royal College of Surgeons. It’s a collection of human curiosities. There’s a skeleton of a giant, glass jars with tumours and tapeworms, skulls infected with syphilis, that sort of thing. “But for tattoo inspiration, seriously?” John’s pretty sure that Sherlock mainly tattoos decorative dotwork designs. Not _horror_. 

Sherlock seems mildly insulted. “I observe the symmetry in various samples, both botanical and biological, and recreate them on human skin in complex geometrical tattoos.” 

“…right.” John tries to imagine that. Does he mean details like nerves and veins? Or plant venation patterns? John remembers the schematics in his old textbooks. Actually, that could be interesting to interpret that artistically. John has seen pictures of the bodysuits Sherlock designs, he knows how insanely intricate they tend to be. “That’s… kind of brilliant.” 

“You believe so.” Sherlock’s tone is even, as if he is testing him. 

“Well, yeah, I’m imagining skin samples, or brain sections?” John tries to think of other possibilities. “Or bacterial colonies? I’d love to tattoo the pattern-forming ones.” 

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “I have done _Paenibacillus dendritiformis_ , as well as necrotising fasciitis. Cholera displays an interesting pattern as well. Sadly, I have not found the appropriate client. Yet.”

John grins at him. “Only matter of time, that. There’s always an arse somewhere who deserves a bit of Cholera.” 

They all look up as Jim enters, snapping at a production assistant in a harried way. 

“Speaking of…” 

Sherlock laughs, and John can feel something light in his chest as he smiles. Ha! Someone else who can’t stand that wanker. John’s still smiling when the production assistant says, “Everyone, silence please!” 

Sherlock turns back around with a last grin, and they both focus on the judges coming in. 

It lingers in John’s mind. He never would have considered designing a tattoo like that. John’s always been pretty literal with his designs - he tends to work off references mainly. But what a clever way of looking at things.

Irene announces, “Today’s challenge has been set by Mike, and it will concern his speciality: old school.”

Really? John looks up. Well then, he’s good for today. Then again, he better not fuck this one up. 

“We are testing you on a favourite old school design... a Gypsy head.” 

A mumble goes through the group. John just nods. They tend to be more neo traditional than old school actually, but he has done a fair few. 

“What we are looking for is a big bold outline, packed with colour, but in a limited colour palette,” Mike tells them earnestly. “And Janine, since you were the winner of the pig skin flash challenge, you can assign the canvasses.”

A row of people walk in, ready to be tattooed, and Janine slides off her chair. 

Mike instructs, “You can ask them what they are looking for in a tattoo, and the location where they want it tattooed.” 

Janine stands in front of the first volunteer, a young woman, and asks her, “What would you like?” 

“I want a traditional Gypsy head on my lower back.” 

Janine goes down the line, collecting various responses: “On my calf.” “On my arm.” “In-between these two tattoos.” “Big, and on my ribs.” “I don’t mind, really!” 

John is not that concerned about location, although it does play into how well they’ll sit and take the pain. But Janine seems to have some sort of a strategy, because she’s considering them all carefully. 

In the end, she pairs John up with an older man who wants a Gypsy head on his thigh, so John thinks she did him a favour. Or, more likely, that Janine thinks that he isn’t competition to her at all, which is fine. It does make more sense for her to try and get rid of the big names first, like Raz and Sherlock. Soo Lin’s proper talented, too, from what John’s heard. 

He waits until some of them have gone over, then grabs his cane and makes his way to his client for the day. 

It’s easy enough. John traces the area on the client’s leg where he can tattoo, looks at some references on his laptop, decides on a colour palette, and then moves to the large table in the middle of the studio to draw. They have until after lunch for this bit, and after that it’s tattooing. John makes sure to draw a detailed outline - with something as specific as a face he likes having the security of those lines already there. He’ll have to go a bit more intense with his colours than is purely traditional, but he’s feeling good about it. 

When lunchtime comes around, there’s a large selection of sarnies put on the table by the production staff, and they can pick what they want to eat. 

John checks on what Sherlock’s up to, but he’s bent over his drawing, still working, so John leaves him to it. Yeah, as brilliant as his style might be, it’s no old school, is it? Traditional is a skill in itself, that’s why John was always so attracted to it. There’s no use in trying to break the rules before you actually know them. There’s a lot of history there, too. It’s creating tattoos that will stand the test of time. John likes the thought that a tattoo done by him now will still be legible in forty years. 

He’s eating his own lunch when Bainbridge slides next to him and quietly says, “Sir.” 

John nods out of habit, before he realises, “Not in the army anymore.” 

Bainbridge smiles. “You were a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I heard them say it.” 

“Yes.” John eyes him. “You served?” 

“Only as a Private. I was a Royal Guard for a while as a day job when I started tattooing.” 

Wiggins comes to sit next to them. “A Royal Guard? That’s like, guarding the queen isn’t it?” 

Raz joins as well. He has a special hummus wrap – John heard him ask for it. “Damn ‘Bridge, that’s posh!” 

The conversation gets into tattooing again before long. They’re all quite a bit younger than John, and he can tell. John doesn’t have an Instagram for his work, or Pinterest, or Twitter. He can barely manage a Facebook page for the shop - Mary does all of that. He likes hearing them talk about it though. Besides Mike and Mary, John doesn’t know a lot of other artists personally. 

After eating, their clients come back. 

Mike announces, “You have five hours to complete this challenge and to tattoo a Gypsy head. Your time starts… now.” 

John gets his inks ready and tapes his drawing to the tattooing bench. He doesn’t notice it immediately when he sits down, but the height of his chair is perfect. John glances at Sherlock, not at all expecting to see him look back, but he is. 

Sherlock nods at him, and only then starts his own work. 

Oh. He _was_ just helping out, then? John thinks about that while he positions his stencil onto the client’s thigh. It could be good to have an ally in this competition. And certainly someone like Sherlock Holmes - he’s bound to make it ‘till the end.

The tattoo itself goes well enough. John is conscious of the time limit, but then tattooing at home in the shop is no different. People pay by the hour for larger pieces, so it’s important to be precise in his estimate of what he can do. John has dealt with some difficult clients throughout the years, so he has learned to be damn accurate. 

The client he’s working on now isn’t a huge talker, luckily. In his own shop John tends to put on some music to entertain them when it’s just him tattooing. When Mary’s working she likes to chat. Here, it’s just the endless buzz of the tattoo machines. John’s working with a triple-coiled machine, and the sound as well as the feel of the machine in his hand is deeply familiar.

After a while, it becomes a sort of trance. Tattoo a line, wipe it off. Tattoo another line, wipe. John’s always searched for that feeling of being so focused that the rest of the world fades away. It’s the closest he can get now to what it was like to work in an A&E or Afghanistan - his vision zooms in on the client right in front of him and the work that needs to be done. 

While shading, John makes sure to keep the edges of his tattoo clean. He does saturate it well. 

When the client asks for a bathroom break, John cleans the freshly inked skin off, wraps it in some temporary cling film, and allows him to go. He takes advantage of the time to stretch his leg and have a walk around the room as well. It can’t hurt to have a look at what everyone else is doing. 

Most are working. Janine’s client is wandering around and drinking some coke. Janine herself isn’t anywhere John can see. Soo Lin is quickly making another stencil. Wiggins is tattooing his client on the ribs and the man’s groaning loudly. John can empathise - that spot hurts like hell. A lot of it does, of course. That’s why John got tattooed, right after Afghanistan. It was pain he could choose. Bits of his body he could make how _he_ wanted them to be. That meant a lot, back then. 

Sarah smiles at him while she works. She’s using bright blue, which John wouldn’t have done. She’s also got a very minimal outline, John sees. She’s going for a faded watercolour sort of look again. 

John circles around the room and has a non-intrusive glance at everyone’s work. Bainbridge’s lines are very thick. He’s doing multiple passes with his liner, making it appear very bold, but a bit rough. 

Howard’s outline is really shaky. He looks up when John walks past and asks, “You think it’s all right?” 

John says, “I’d go over those lines again.” 

Howard frowns, and then works on. He’s going to really have to work to make that into anything decent, John thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything? But it was obvious. 

Raz is tattooing a vibrant flapper girl that manages to be eye-catching from half a room away. John’s not a fan of his style, and it’s not a traditional Gypsy head by any definition, but it is well done. 

Molly’s is soft and feminine. She seems unsure, but the work is great. She has a steady hand. “Nice, that,” John tells her. 

She looks up at him gratefully. “You think so?” 

John does. “It’s really clean. It’s good.” 

He leaves Sherlock for last, knowing he was struggling. He still seems to be, Sherlock is bent over his client’s back, oblivious to the woman wincing and tearing up while he is colouring in very precise lines with a pneumatic tattoo machine. John would tell him to just use his shader for the colour, but Sherlock’s clearly focusing, and John doesn’t want to mess with that. It’s probably stressful too, to suddenly do something completely different. 

His client comes back, so John sits down again. “I think about an hour more will do it.” 

John focuses on the colour for a while. And then it’s adding highlights - a little more white on the cheek, a shine in the eye... John uses his liner again for some of the smaller details like the necklace, and the sides of her headscarf. But the skin is getting really angry and sore, and the client pulls away from the machine several times. 

“Almost done.” John cleans it up as much as he can, and then stops before it gets too overworked. There. His version of [a neo traditional Gypsy](https://www.instagram.com/p/BedZp7ThdA_/?taken-by=j.m.mee). John checks the time – finished with twenty-five minutes left. 

He sprays the hot and swollen skin down, then wipes the sheen of ink and blood off, and gives the client a chance to have a look at it in the mirror. John stretches, and then carefully stands so his leg can take his weight gradually. The production people come by to take pictures of his work for judging, and then John rubs the tattoo in with Vaseline and wraps it with cling film. 

They sit and wait for a while. John adjusts his sleeves so he doesn’t show any of his own ink on camera. He never liked showing it off. 

John finished his tattoo well on time, but looking around, that isn’t true for most of the artists. Janine is cursing at her machine. Sarah seems to be nearly in tears. Howard is still going at it with his liner. 

“And... done!” The five hours are over. 

Sarah still has splotches of colour on her bench. Bainbridge was wiping off his ink, and Janine was still shading. Soo Lin was finished, and so was Sherlock, apparently. John is curious, but he lets them clean up in peace. 

The camera crew comes around because they want to film each tattoo as well, so John actually has to take the cling film off again for that part. 

Most people seem a bit on edge now. There’s some healthy laughter, but they all want to know who’s going home after this and who isn’t. John goes to the bathroom, then endures some more chatting. Molly’s nervous about her work, even though she really shouldn’t be. Janine is pretending to be more confident than she is - there are some shaky lines in there. John looks for Sherlock, but he has disappeared. Off to take a smoke break, maybe? He looks like he might be a smoker. 

They go back to the tall chairs.

“Feeling all right about it?” John asks Bainbridge. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t know, man. That was hard. I’m not used to all that colour. I’d rather do blackwork.” 

It’s not necessarily easier to do blackwork. Colour’s more forgiving than straight lines are, plus placement can be tricky. John nods. “Maybe the next one.” 

“Yeah.” Bainbridge seems nervous. John doesn’t fancy being sent home on episode one either, especially on a traditional piece. But he’s thinking he’ll be all right. There’s much worse work in the room today than what he did. Some of these pieces are completely wrong for the style. 

John was right about where Sherlock went, because he comes back carrying in a faint wave of cigarette smoke. John smiles. “You got your fix, then?” 

Sherlock frowns at him. “What?” 

“A cigarette?” 

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise. He seems nervous, so John doesn’t ask him more, even though he’d like to. Mostly about why he came here, when he obviously doesn’t need the publicity. John eyes him for a while. Maybe they’re all here to do something different for once. John’s not exactly excited about being critiqued on camera, but it _is_ interesting. He’s never had his work critiqued at all, at least not since he finished his apprenticeship in Mike’s shop. 

“Filming in three, two…”

The judges walk in. Jim and Irene are both smiling too much for it to be at all genuine. Mike has some awkwardness to him as well now, and John wonders whether it’s really going to be about sending the worst contestants home, or just the least camera-ready. In that case, he should be worried probably. John imagines he doesn’t look that great on camera, especially next to all these young things. 

“We had a chance to look at your tattoos in detail and to discuss them amongst ourselves,” Mike begins, “So we will review them one by one. Janine, you assigned the canvasses, so you are up first.” 

Janine’s Gypsy head tattoo is shown on a large screen, so they can all see it in detail. “Nice work,” Mike says. “Traditional colour palette.” 

“I think you did yourself a favour by using an extensive stencil,” Irene notes. “In the places where you didn’t, there were some notably shaky lines.” 

There are, John can see them clearly. 

Wiggins is up next. He worked on the ribs, John remembers. Mike starts off with, “I do have a few criticisms. But I commend you for doing a big tattoo, and on the ribs, too.” 

“That it takes guts doesn’t mean it’s executed particularly well,” Jim argues. 

Yeah. He’s actually right for once. It’s not that great. The colour work especially is very patchy. 

“Sarah...” Mike shakes his head. “...It’s just not what we asked for.” 

“I don’t like not seeing lines in this sort of work,” Irene adds. “You’re lacking an outline. This is not going to age well.” 

It’s not. None of that watercolour style tends to age well - it all blurs into bruise-like tattoos over time. Mary will do some of those occasionally, but John’s not a fan. Then again, if it’s what the client wants... 

“Bainbridge.” They all stare at the screen. 

Jim clicks his tongue scoldingly. “Lines, all that’s there is lines… It’s like a blackwork tattoo with some fields of solid colour.” 

Mike agrees. “Technically, it’s not a terrible tattoo, but for the genre itself… odd.” 

Howard’s is really shaky. It’s obvious as soon as they see it on the screen. Irene says delicately, “I think you let your nerves get to you.” 

“The quality of your linework, and the quality of your shading… You’re just not hitting it clean,” Mike says. 

“Raz.” Raz’s [tattooed flapper girl](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bedr2BEhH3w/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is even more bright and striking on the screen. He’s definitely doing his own thing, John thinks. But the challenge was a traditional Gypsy, not whatever style woman he’d prefer it to be. 

Jim laughs. “I like it. It makes _an impression_.” 

Mike settles on, “It’s not at all traditional, but it’s a very good tattoo. Very original.” 

Sherlock is next. “Sherlock...” Mike looks at it for a moment more. “The tattoo is clean, very precise, but not smooth.” 

“It falls a bit flat,” Irene adds. “Her expression, the make-up. I can see your technicality, but it doesn’t pull together in this.” 

Sherlock simply nods, and then looks down towards his knees. He’s not pleased, John thinks. Not at all. 

John looks up to see his own work on the screen. 

“John, this was right up your street, wasn’t it, old school?” Mike asks. 

_As if he doesn’t know._ John nods. “It was, yeah.” 

“You can tell. Absolutely,” Irene comments. “Her face is beautiful. The linework was great, and the colours are just right.” She looks at him. “Well done.”

Right! Well, that’s not too bad. John’s pretty chuffed with that.

“Soo Lin.” Her work has a definite Oriental influence, John thinks. It’s a bit wrong for the style, but it’s well executed. 

Jim’s not that happy. “You didn’t put in any skin tone whatsoever, and then you overdid the blush to the point where it looks like clown makeup.” 

Irene softens it with, “It looked a bit harsh.” 

Molly’s [Gypsy with a rose](https://www.instagram.com/p/BeOGHwKlSDS/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is up last. Her work is the best of the day, John thinks. His own was more traditional, but Molly’s has that expression just right. 

“She looks gorgeous, very serene,” Mike says. 

Irene points out, “The only criticism I would have is to make her face bigger and have the rose complimenting that. Here you have them the same size. But very well done.” 

“Now, for the tattoo of the day…” Mike looks at the other two judges. “I believe John answered the brief the best. That’s a strong traditional piece.”

John sits up a bit straighter. Was it? Nice of Mike to go out on a limb for him here. 

“For me it’s Raz.” Jim grins and waggles his eyebrows at Raz. “For sheer audacity.” 

“Irene?” Mike turns towards her. 

“It was Molly’s for me. The softness of that face, that’s very difficult to do.” Irene looks at Molly. “But you pulled it off. Great work, Molly Hooper.” 

Molly shifts awkwardly on her chair. “Thank... thank you.” 

“The tattoo of the day is…” Mike looks down at the piece of paper in front of him, winces slightly, and says, “Raz! We appreciated your unique approach.” 

Right. That doesn’t make much bloody sense, John thinks. 

Raz punches the air and laughs. “Fuck yeah!” 

He doesn’t have much time to celebrate, because Mike gets right onto the worst tattoos. “Tonight, two people will be leaving. The first person going home is going to be…” 

There’s a brief flutter in the group where everyone hopes not to be called. John’s pretty sure he’s safe. He didn’t win, but he knows he was up there. 

“Howard.” 

Yeah. That’s the right choice, probably.

Irene takes over. “And the second person going home is...” Her eyes settle on one person. “Sarah, I’m sorry.” 

“All right.” Sarah is still smiling even though she’s tearing up. “I understand.” 

Howard says, “I knew it. Couldn’t get those lines right.” 

They all get up from their chairs and say a quick goodbye. And that’s it. There are eight of them left now. 

John leans on his cane, then seeks out Sherlock’s eyes while they walk off. John gives him a smile when they connect. Survived it, yeah? 

On to the next, then.

 

\---

 

The episode is over. 

The Channel 4 adverts are rolling, something about yoghurt and then car insurance, and Rosie’s whining - she’s up well past her bedtime. Her mouth and hands are coloured orange from the crisps Mary set out. 

Mary’s friends came over to watch with them, so they’re having a bit of a do. They’re all busily talking over each other, saying, “I never knew you could tattoo _pigs_ , John!” 

“So old school, that’s your style of tattooing?” 

“You nearly had it there!” 

“That Irene chick’s bangin’ - you got her number, John?” 

John doesn’t answer any of them. He lifts Rosie and holds the warm weight of her on his hip while he pours himself a drink. She’s rubbing her grubby hands all over his shirt, but John hardly notices. Just seeing Sherlock’s face again made something tight settle in his throat. Hearing Sherlock’s voice rolling through those speakers, seeing the mildly suspicious way he was eyeing the camera... John had forgotten how special he is. How amazing. 

Or not forgotten. Yeah, that’s a bloody lie isn’t it? John didn’t forget Sherlock at all. Not for a single moment since he came home. John can still hear the deep timbre of Sherlock’s laugh in his mind. Despite everything, John still wants… He has a long sip of his drink, takes a breath, then turns around and says, “She’s gay.”

“...what?” 

The conversation had gone on without him, but John directs it to the bloke who asked in the first place. “Irene Adler. She’s gay.” 

He hears a chorus of “What, she is?” “You sure?” and “She don’t look like it.” 

John tries not to see Mary’s eyes on him. Instead, he glances down at Rosie and shifts her weight on his hip. 

“I’m sure, yeah.”

He has another sip of his drink, then meets Mary’s gaze. “I’m sure.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Ingenuity (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock sits under the flickering kitchen light of Baker Street, surrounded by stacks of drawing materials, lab equipment, and three cups of tea that have gone cold throughout the night. He looks through his microscope and sketches a rudimentary outline of _Treponema Pallidum_ bacteria - Syphilis. 

John would have thought that was funny, once. 

Of course, at this exact moment, not even ten miles away, John Watson is likely sleeping next to his wife. And Sherlock is drawing because it is somewhat less torturous than staring at the ceiling for hours on end.

Sherlock looks up from his microscope to see that his hand has started on a thin, barely suggestive line that is meant to be the edge of John’s jaw. Then the corner of his cheekbone. 

Sherlock draws John’s eyes, quickly. 

Episode two will air in less than twenty-four hours. 

 

\---

 

Episode Two

Sherlock paces and smokes outside the studio by Canary Wharf. 

He has to perform better today than he did yesterday. His shell tattoo on pig skin (a standard practise in the industry) was technically perfect and well received, but his Gypsy head tattoo was not positively critiqued at all. Even though Sherlock used the same meticulous linework, the judges reacted to it differently and they praised the liveliness in others’ work over Sherlock’s superior technique. 

Sherlock leans against the wall and waits until the rest of the so-called artists – there appear to be only a few who have any true talent – have finished their breakfast and deign to come over and compete. 

It is John Watson who walks his way first. Judging by his gait, he is in some pain this morning. 

Sherlock takes a draw from his cigarette and greets him. “Doctor Watson.” 

“Just John’s fine.” He smiles with something hard underneath. “Not a doctor anymore.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and Sherlock wonders whether they are meant to discuss the weather and other useless topics like it while they wait together. Sherlock refuses to. He is here to tattoo to an outstanding standard, not to make _friends_. 

The doctor is mildly interesting however. Sherlock eyes him. Last night, while he was unable to sleep, Sherlock considered each contestant and their various strengths and weaknesses, and he examined John’s drive for being here. Sherlock takes a breath and quickly points out, “You miss it. The war, the army, as well as medicine. Performing under pressure.” 

“No...” John seems surprised. “I don’t miss it, really.” He shrugs. “It’s no different than tattooing.” 

His voice doesn’t sound like it. It sounds like he misses the war like he misses a functioning leg. 

“You were addicted to the adrenaline your previous lifestyle provided,” Sherlock argues. “Tattooing is merely a weak substitute.”

Instead of showing anger - which is the usual reaction to Sherlock’s bluntness – John calmly looks back and asks, “Is this you trying to intimidate me, then?” 

Sherlock can feel a shiver of intrigue at the question. “…Would I be successful?”

“Doubt it.” John eyes him. He still seems utterly at ease with the suggestion of violence. 

Oh, this _is_ interesting. Sherlock grins. “Good.”

John steadily returns his smile. The morning light catches his eyelashes, and Sherlock tries to disregard the subtle heat in his chest while he observes him. _Fascinating._

Unfortunately several of the other contestants choose that moment to walk up to their location, ready for today’s flash challenge. Wiggins even shouts, “Hiya, John!” essentially forcing John to move away. 

“Morning,” John replies and starts to walk alongside Wiggins into the studio. But his eyes linger on Sherlock’s for a moment more. 

Sherlock raises his cigarette for another drag. It has burned down to his fingers. 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

Once they all are gathered inside the studio, the production assistants direct them outside again and into two vans. 

Sherlock attempts to tune out the ceaseless chattering while they drive south towards Crossharbour. His thoughts are still on the doctor and his unusual reaction – John’s entire posture relaxed when he reacted to Sherlock’s perceived threat. Sherlock spends the short ride replaying their conversation. 

They park by a large hangar. When he exits the van, Sherlock says, “After you,” to Molly Hooper, which makes her blush faintly. 

Sherlock ignores her smile while they walk inside the hangar, to see four entirely white cars parked there. Next to each car, there is a workstation prepared with a large selection of markers. 

The contestants all line up obediently. Sherlock stands at the very end - clearly this will be a challenge in teams of two, and they will need to use the markers to draw onto the cars. It seems rather tedious. Sherlock would much prefer a challenge that is geared towards tattooing. But he knew this was a possibility when he agreed to compete. 

“Welcome, contestants! You have entered this competition with one goal in mind: to earn a hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’. This challenge is meant to test your creativity…” 

Sherlock tunes out Mike’s introduction. He has no interest in competing in a team of any sort, but if he is forced to do so, then obviously John would be the most desirable choice for him to work with. John might struggle with reaching various parts of the car and the physicality of this challenge because of his disability, but Sherlock would not mind kneeling himself. 

However, Raz won the Gypsy head elimination challenge, and he can choose their teams. Sherlock fully expects to be paired with someone who he will despise. 

“I’m working with ‘Bridge,” Raz announces. 

His choice is entirely expected. Even though Bainbridge is not an exceptional artist, he has spoken out in favour of Raz’s work, and they are of a similar age. Their talents are not as compatible, but a team challenge is primarily about the ability to cooperate, Sherlock imagines.

“Janine’s with John.” Ah. Raz likely believes Janine to be competition because she won the previous flash challenge, and he assumes John will slow her down. 

“Wiggins with Molly, and Sherlock with Soo Lin.”

Sherlock joins her by their assigned car. He has not yet determined whether Soo Lin’s apparent shyness is a scheme in this competition, a genuine issue, or perhaps a cultural construct. At least she’ll be quiet. 

“Three, two, one… begin!”

Soo Lin looks at him. “I thought, perhaps a dragon?” 

“Expected. But working within your capabilities, so therefore not a _terrible_ idea.” Sherlock continues, “Two options: either figuratively stencilling a dragon across the car, or transforming the entirety of the car into a dragon. I believe the second will impact the judges favourably, as they have expressed wanting us to think beyond the expected.” 

They don’t have time to colour the car fully, not with these tools. But certain accents across the car, if well-placed, will suggest the sense of a dragon. 

Sherlock considers Soo Lin and instructs, “A Chinese dragon, given your background. Across the car, accentuated by some indication of flight to make the image appear less static.” 

“...Okay.” 

She is either impressed by his genius or simply willing to get on with it, Sherlock does not know and does not much care which. The result of his taking charge is that they start working immediately, so despite his dislike of team challenges, Sherlock presumes that so far, they are working highly efficiently. 

The voices of the others echo through the large space. Sherlock listens to them while he free-hands the outline of a dragon head on the bonnet of the car. Raz and Bainbridge are affirming each other endlessly while they design a – predictably – graffiti inspired piece together. 

“Looks cool, man.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that works. Awesome.” 

“We’re gonna rock this!” 

The atmosphere between John and Janine seems to be rather icy. Sherlock hears John say, “No, that’s just decorating the car. Not very creative, that.” 

Janine replies, “I _did_ win the last one of these, so…” 

Molly and Wiggins seem to be having the worst time of it. Molly is nearly in tears while she says, “No, but it won’t… it won’t work!” 

Wiggins claims, “I’ve got a vision, yo. I can see it _in my mind_.”

Sherlock congratulates himself on accepting Soo Lin’s original idea. He is glad now that he thought through various strategies to deal with teamwork and selected the right one. They are doing remarkably better than anyone around them. 

Soo Lin even suggests, “I’ll make the sides parallel?” and Sherlock agrees. 

He collects the first set of markers and starts outlining the dragon’s face. The markers are not the quality he would like them to be, he needs to put more pressure on them that he usually does when drawing in order to colour the car. The smell of the markers is noticeably heavy as well - Sherlock is viscerally reminded of huffing glue near the end of a week-long bender. By then, he was willing to try anything to prolong his high, no matter how undignified. 

He tries to distract himself from the memory by considering John’s atypical response to their conversation again. Sherlock looks over to see him. 

John is laboriously lowering himself to sit on the ground in order to draw around the wheel arches of his car. The manoeuvre is clearly painful, but he does not ask Janine for assistance, or to swap places. He likely believes that he needs to prove his worth as an equal in the team or something preposterous like that - Sherlock thinks again that he would have done much better at dividing the work between himself and John, if given the chance. This manoeuvring will likely pain John for days to come, making him a less effective… Ah. Of course. 

Janine is much cleverer than Sherlock had given her credit for. John is the superior artist, so if she can wear John down now in a team challenge, he will be less of a threat to her in the next round. He might even go home. And if John were to complain later – something Sherlock strongly doubts John would do – Janine would not be blamed, because he never spoke up. 

John’s being an idiot, then. 

Sherlock leaves his markers and strides over towards their car. John looks up with a smile at Sherlock’s purposeful approach, but there is no time to waste on pleasantries in the middle of a challenge. 

“You will be in pain for days to come if you continue doing this.” Sherlock knows he is right. 

The cameras have caught the remark and they are currently zooming in on their interaction. 

John predictably claims, “It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock looks at Janine and tells her, “You should take the wheel arches.” 

“Oh, oh of course!” Janine acts shocked. “I’m so sorry John, I didn’t think about that.” But she also eyes Sherlock with a knowing gleam. _Challenge accepted._

Sherlock returns to his car and immediately starts colouring again. 

After a moment, Soo Lin tells him, “That was good of you, to say something.” 

“Hn.” Sherlock starts on the dragon’s eye. Good? Was that _good_ , what he did? It certainly wasn’t a sound strategic move in the competition. If he wanted to create an alliance with either Janine or John, he has almost certainly ruined it. John especially is likely to dislike Sherlock from here on out for acknowledging his pain while he was being filmed. 

Sherlock thinks it through while he colours in the dragon’s eye with flecks of light - if he wanted John Watson’s company throughout this competition, he has lost it. But John is currently sitting on a chair brought to him by a production assistant, and he is no longer wincing while he reaches forward to draw on the bonnet. He’ll still be in pain - Sherlock can see the stretch in his _rectus femoris_ and _semimentbranosus_ muscles. But it must be better for his leg. 

John does not acknowledge him, so Sherlock attempts to focus on the challenge itself as well. He is already beyond exasperated by the nauseating smell of the markers, as well as their crude effects on the car. It is an utterly pointless challenge. 

With one hour to go, Soo Lin has completely finished drawing the body of the dragon on one side and the back of the car, but she has not started on the other side. Sherlock dislikes the simple task of colouring, but he assists her in what he believes is a particularly selfless move. He is not thanked for it by Soo Lin, but they do finish what they set out to do. 

“Thee, two, one… Put those markers down!” 

Sherlock steps back. Their car has two very striking half-lidded dragon eyes on the bonnet. There is only a suggestion of nostrils, with smoke puffing out of the car’s front grill. The sides of the dragon’s body are represented by the lines and scales Soo Lin tirelessly copied. The lines have a certain flow, Sherlock thinks, but in all, it is more suggestive than representative. 

Mike says, “All right, let’s see how everyone did.” The other two judges appear and join Mike for the critique. 

Sherlock takes a step back, so he is standing behind a group of other artists. 

“Molly and Wiggins!” 

Their work is the least impressive, Sherlock believes. Their drawing is well done, they have a mermaid and corals decorating the car, but the lines are too thin and sketchy to be legible from a distance.

“ _Boring_.” Jim sighs dramatically.

“Compared to the others, it doesn’t quite measure up,” Irene adds, with a kind look towards Molly.

Molly nods. “I know, it’s...” She looks at Wiggins. “We know.” 

“John and Janine.” Mike walks over to the next car and takes the cameras with him. 

They have chosen to decorate the car with anchors and small roses. Sherlock agrees with John that it does not create an impressive effect. 

“It’s a good attempt,” Mike comments. “There are some nice details here.” 

“Technically all right, but you can tell that you’re both tattoo artists and not car refinishers,” Irene says.

Janine gives John a death glare. She whispers, “Told you we should have done it differently!” 

John does not reply, even though Sherlock can see the tension in his shoulders. 

“Raz and Bainbridge.” Mike walks on towards the next car, with the other two judges in tow. 

They have chosen to do graffiti with a heavy black outline, along with flames along the edges of the car. The work itself is nothing extraordinary, Sherlock believes. There are plenty of car shops in London who could accomplish exactly this. 

“Well, that pops again!” Irene smiles. 

Jim’s eyes wander over the car lazily. “Not bad.” 

Then it’s Sherlock and Soo Lin’s turn. Mike walks towards their car and says, “You’re the only ones who looked at the car as a total figure and transformed it that way.” 

“Some of the details are lost,” Irene thinks. “The sides especially, it’s very neat work, but barely noticeable until it’s studied.”

“It does have that... _special something_ we’re looking for.” Jim widens his eyes at him. 

Sherlock looks back evenly. He refuses to be intimidated by Jim Moriarty. Not anymore. 

The three judges retreat to a corner and deliberate for a few minutes, but it seems pretty clear who will win - Sherlock reads the words ‘Raz and Bainbridge’ on Mike’s lips and turns away. It is frustrating. They are trained tattoo artists, not car refinishers or graffiti artists. It is entirely unreasonable to expect them to be outstanding in those areas without a chance to prepare or to consider the medium and the design thoroughly. 

In spite of their ensuing loss, Soo Lin meets Sherlock’s eye with a small smile. 

In all, they worked well together, Sherlock believes. She was quiet and worked steadily. They presumably placed second, and that is more than he would have expected from any challenge requiring interaction with another. Of course, Sherlock has neglected to actually speak to Soo Lin, or to deduce anything about her. He has not wagered a well-founded guess about the age at which she came to the UK (noticeable in her accent), or the likely criminal ties of her family. 

The judges return. While they try to ramp up the tension for the cameras by waiting for a moment longer, most contestants seem to know what they are going to say. 

“The winners are… Raz and Bainbridge!” Mike explains, “Raz, your style, colour work and legibility helped you in the previous challenge and it did here as well. And we can see your black work influence as well, Bainbridge. Congratulations!”

Bainbridge shouts, “Yeah, man!” 

“Whoo!” Raz punches the air again. 

“You will need to assign the canvasses together later today, so have a think on that already,” Mike advises. 

The cameras turn off, and they all file out of the hangar. 

John catches Sherlock’s eye and tilts his head, so Sherlock reluctantly slows his stride. He fully expected John’s anger over interfering with the challenge and suggesting that he required a chair. However, Sherlock had assumed that John would merely ignore him from here on out. Or, at the very least, that he would wait until they were in private before shouting at him. Sherlock is prepared for a tirade - or more likely a clipped ‘stay out of my business’ - when John sidles up to him. 

“You’re right.”

Sherlock stares at him. 

“I _am_ here because I miss it.” John speaks while he continues to walk towards the exit, so Sherlock follows him outside. “The adrenaline of the army. Medicine, all of it.” John looks at him, searching for a reaction. “I wanted a challenge.” 

Ah. Sherlock clears his throat. “Clearly.” He’s always right about these things. That’s why interaction with others is so often entirely tedious. Sherlock sees through their motives before they themselves have bothered to consider them. Although John did make the effort to tell him he was right, which is... incredibly rare. 

John glances at him. “That’s why you’re here too, then? The challenge?” He seems to want to know the answer. 

“…I was bored,” Sherlock offers. It isn’t very far from the truth - his clients are generally incredibly dull. Also, Mike asked him to compete. Sherlock has always tolerated Mike’s company, which is more than he can say for most other tattoo artists in London. 

“You joined a reality TV show out of boredom?” John smiles, showing a soft spark in his eyes. “You might regret that.” 

“You invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock parries quickly with a nod at John’s leg. “You ever regret that?” 

For a moment, Sherlock is certain that he has gone too far yet again. But John blinks, and then breathes a huff of laughter. It is a surprisingly rewarding sound. 

They are back by the vans and they need to split up, but John continues smiling and shaking his head at the audacity, even while he steps into the van. 

Sherlock smiles back. 

 

-

 

As soon as they arrive back at the studio, Sherlock purposely disappears. He has been told often enough that his company is only bearable in small doses, so it is better to remain distant. 

If he were to speak to John again right now, he might ruin it. 

He spends his lunch break smoking outside on his own. But when he is called back inside, Sherlock stops Mike first behind a corner of the studio, out of view of the others, and tells him, “You need to provide a chair for John Watson at every challenge. Preferably one that he can adjust to his height.” _And you need to give him time away from the cameras to do so._

Mike seems surprised that Sherlock brought it up. “...We will. We will, yeah. Thanks for pointing it out. He doesn’t always… He’s not good at telling us.” Mike’s eyes turn thoughtful. “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

Again, Mike assumes that he is being kind, but it is the exact opposite - Sherlock _needs_ fair opposition. He wishes people would see that, instead of whatever notion of benevolence they choose to attach to this. 

Sherlock has no further time to dwell on it. He slides onto his seat at the same time as Mike takes his place on the small stage. The next challenge is about to start.

The cameras turn towards the stage, and Irene says, “The next elimination challenge is set by Jim. It concerns his specialty, a standard in the tattoo world… a cover-up.” 

Hm. It _is_ a standard. Sherlock prefers to tattoo large spaces of empty skin, of course. He generally refuses to do a piece if there is anything else tattooed in the vicinity of the skin he needs to work with, because it ruins the aesthetic of his designs. Still, it is a technical feat to design and execute a clean cover-up tattoo, so it is not entirely unforeseen that this would come up in the challenges.

“But that is not all.” Jim sounds deeply ominous. 

There is a ripple of shock travelling though the group. Sherlock refuses to appear at all affected simply for the cameras’ sake. He can see the same in John - he is simply waiting for them to get on with it. 

“What you’re covering up will be…” Jim makes a deeply excited sound. “A scar!” 

Ah. Sherlock has tattooed over scars on several occasions. Most notably on his own forearms. 

“I am looking for a complete cover of the entire scar, with detailed linework. You are not simply covering but also distracting the eye away from the scarring.” Jim has a glint in his eyes when he studies them all closely. “I expect a masterpiece!”

Mike adds, “Bring out the canvasses.”

A group of eight people walk out. 

“Raz and Bainbridge, you two won the car flash challenge, so you will get to assign each canvas to a tattoo artist.” Mike instructs, “You can come up and ask them what they are looking for, and which scar they want to cover.” 

“Hullo.” Raz walks up and talks to the first client, a middle-aged man. “What are you looking to get?”

“A black and grey tractor on my chest.” 

“And can we see the scar?” 

The man lifts his shirt and shows off a long, straight scar without any swelling. It is likely the result of heart surgery. A scar like that should be easy enough to cover. Of course, the nature of a realistic black and grey tattoo is that it depends very heavily on soft shading and detail, which is made more difficult by the unpredictability of scar tissue. 

Sherlock pays close attention to the various scars that are either revealed or described while they go down the line. There is a childhood scar on a man’s back from falling down a ladder. Then a surgery scar from an appendix removal approximately thirty years ago. 

A woman shows an intricate web of stretch marks on her hip - Sherlock leans forward on his seat in order to see her. Some scars do not hold any pigment at all because of the excess collagen in the damaged skin, so the state of the scarred skin itself will be vitally important to the success of this challenge. 

Next is a severe burn on a lower leg. Then a series of self-harm scars on a wrist. An older woman shows a scar left behind from a central line after extensive chemotherapy. 

The last woman in the line seems the most nervous. She’s young, not even thirty. When it is her turn, she says, “I have a history of breast cancer in my family. My mum died from it, and my grandmother, and two of my aunts. So I…” She briefly swallows, then speaks on while raising her head, “I had the test, and when I found out I had the gene, I had them removed. I want a warrior woman over the scars.” 

_Interesting._

Sherlock would take her as a client himself, if he had the choice. Which makes it even more surprising that while Bainbridge and Raz deliberate, they explicitly glance at her and then look his way. Sherlock calmly returns their gaze. If they believe that this will throw him, then they know _nothing_ about his skill level. 

Bainbridge picks, “I’ll do the appendix surgery scar.”

“And I’ll take the wrist,” Raz announces.

They assign the burn on the lower leg to Molly, and the chest scar to Janine – Bainbridge is in an alliance with her, Sherlock suspects. They are from the same shop. Wiggins receives the childhood scar, then John the central line scar. Soo Lin will have to work with the stretch marks, which means that… the woman at the very end is directed towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock nods at her and walks over. The cameras follow him, eager to see him fail. Sherlock does not spare them a single glance. He guides her to his workspace, sits across from her, and says, “They assigned me this tattoo because they believe that my rapport with you might be an issue.” 

“…Okay.” She looks at him. 

“They are correct in the sense that I lack an appropriate bedside manner,” Sherlock admits. “But I, however, can tell you that I applaud your decision, both to have the surgery and to live on without breast reconstruction.” 

He truly does. A mutation of the BRCA1 or the BRCA2 gene greatly increases the chance of acquiring breast or ovarian cancer. Sherlock would like to believe that if he were in her situation, he would rid himself of the sentimentality of body parts in order to prioritise survival as well.

She carefully says, “Thank you.”

“I have executed an extensive chest piece over scarring less than two years ago.” Sherlock collects his portfolio and hands it to her opened at the right page. 

He took the picture up close, so no one can tell who the tattoo belongs to. 

It took six months of clients going up and down the stairs of Baker Street to the room on the second floor where Sherlock works, and Mrs. Hudson running around making them endless cups of tea, before she asked him, “Can you…. can you tattoo over any scar, Sherlock?” 

He had been distracted, so he’d told her, “Depending on age and severity of the scar. But generally, yes.” 

She’d said, “Oh,” and walked away. 

It was only when Sherlock asked her about it days later that Mrs. Hudson unbuttoned her dress to show the extensive scarring on her chest. “Kitchen knife,” she’d said. “My ex-husband, he was a violent man, you see. I was cooking, and he took…” Mrs. Hudson had looked back at him, almost daring him to feel pity. 

Sherlock did not. Not for a moment. Instead he studied the scars and said, “What would you like?” 

Sherlock drew her swarms of butterflies and heaps of her favourite flowers, so she could choose the exact ones she preferred. He created an elaborate design for her, and then spent months tattooing Mrs. Hudson’s thin and scarred skin. When after countless sessions Sherlock declared it done, she had an intricate and colourful chest piece, and no more visible scarring. 

The woman’s eyes linger on the pictures of Mrs. Hudson for long moments before she swallows and looks back at him. “Okay. Okay, yes, you can… Yes.” 

Sherlock finds the privacy screen, and then measures and photographs her chest. _A warrior woman..._ Sherlock asks her, “What is your knowledge concerning _Boudica_?” 

After his client leaves, Sherlock collects his sketching tools and his laptop, and he sits by the large drawing table to start working. 

There is a concentrated silence around him. Bainbridge is busily sketching lettering. Wiggins is enlarging a drawing of an Oriental dragon. 

After a few minutes, Molly hesitantly comes to sit beside Sherlock. She has developed some sort of inclination to speak to him, because she asks quietly, “How are you doing with your client, Sherlock?” 

She seems to be _concerned_ , which Sherlock finds to be deeply annoying. Whatever these people might believe, he is not a brute. And if the idea of surgically removing body parts to ward off potential death did not scare this woman, then Sherlock’s bedside manner is rather unlikely to do the trick. “I am an accomplished tattoo artist. I am doing perfectly well.” 

“It’s just, if you would need an, ah, a woman to talk to her... I would.” Molly whispers as if she is proposing treason.

“I have no need for your help,” Sherlock repeats. He focuses on his laptop until Molly leaves. 

Sherlock searches for pictures of the bronze statue by Thomas Thornycroft by Westminster Bridge - _Boadicea and Her Daughters_ \- and prints them off as references. Sherlock studies the lines of the statue carefully, and then starts sketching out a general idea. They have the rest of the day and part of tomorrow morning to perfect this design, so he works in great detail. 

When the last client has left some time later, they are dismissed to go eat dinner. 

As they walk back to the hotel, Raz comes up to him. “Hey, we had to give her to someone, and we thought…” 

Sherlock knows exactly what they thought. He says, “Your choice was not well-founded, seeing how I have extensive experience with covering scars. But you were working with the information you had.” 

“All right, that’s... Good, then.” Raz nods, seemingly confused.

After a moment of silence where Sherlock is waiting to be left alone, John intervenes by walking next to them and asking, “You fancy eating downstairs tonight, Sherlock?” 

In truth, Sherlock prefers to eat alone in his hotel room and to focus on the project at hand. But he can see how some social pleasantries might be beneficial for his future in the competition, so Sherlock says, “Yes.” 

He joins John on the short walk to the hotel restaurant and once inside, they sit down at an empty table. There are some looks thrown their way that Sherlock pretends not to notice. In a way, this is reminding him of going to school. Sherlock remembers the cliques and the exclusion vividly. He spent years eating alone in a corner of the room there, too. This will be no different, he imagines. 

Of course right now Sherlock is not alone. John asks, “What did you do then, before tattooing?” 

Sherlock answers automatically. “I read Chemistry at Cambridge.” 

He experienced three miserable years of university life and grew immensely bored of chemistry in the process. Still, science has always made sense to him. It is a study of predictable and observable reactions, and Sherlock enjoyed the simplicity. 

“You’re a scientist, then?” John seems pleased to hear it.

“Yes.” 

John glances at the menu, but he does not seem to care about what they will be served. 

Neither does Sherlock. He says, quickly, “I prepare my own ink.”

“’Course you do.” John grins. “You’re the type.” 

“I occasionally consult for Scotland Yard as well.” Sherlock says it despite the fact that he has promised Lestrade not to make this public. “I assist with identifying tattooed corpses after a suspicious death. I classify the artist, the era, and possible gang affiliations, along with the types of ink used. All of those can be useful in order to make a positive identification.” 

“…Seriously?” John seems impressed. “That’s brilliant, that.” 

It is the second time that John has called him _brilliant_. Obviously John is habitually generous with his praise and Sherlock should not take it personally, but it seems to wave through his stomach regardless, even while they order. 

John asks, “You look at types of ink - like prison ink or home mixed versus the usual commercial brands, stuff like that?”

“Yes.” It does not happen often that Sherlock is so easily understood. 

“So you go to crime scenes?” 

“Rarely, mainly the morgue.” Or Lestrade brings him pictures. 

“Hm, _nice_.” 

Sherlock speaks on, “I have assembled a catalogue of over three thousand images of gang-related tattoos found at London crime scenes.”

“Jesus, three thousand?” 

“Some depict affiliations to the Serbian or Russian mafia, the Columbian cartels, Chinese Triads, or even the Japanese Yakuza.” That last one was his personal favourite. 

Sherlock rarely attempts to explain what he does to anyone. But he finds he enjoys talking about it now, along with the interested smile that John throws his way. 

“I could show you.” Sherlock offers before he remembers that no one is interested in his database, not even the police unless they need him. 

But John says - out of _politeness_ , Sherlock assumes - “Yeah! I’d love to see that.”

Sherlock takes out his phone over the pasta he apparently ordered – he has no memory of doing so - and shows John pictures of various hand-poked prison and gang tattoos. 

John looks at them and asks questions such as “How did you find the artist then?” and “You got all that from a skin sample?” 

So Sherlock finds himself telling John everything he knows about several cases he worked on, both the significance of the tattoos, and how he was able to retrace their origins. He occasionally enlarges a picture to show John a detail, and then quickly flicks on through his phone to find another reference while he explains his identification process. 

John’s additions such as “They really didn’t do that right,” and “Look at his neck - that bloke died from suffocation, not strangulation,” are surprisingly wonderful. 

When Sherlock looks up from his phone to take a drink of water an undefined amount of time and talking later, his voice is hoarse, and the other diners around them have left. 

They are the only ones still seated in the hotel restaurant. 

“I never would have seen it coming that it was the artist all along.” John leans back into his chair, still smiling mildly. 

It was quite obvious, in fact. But perhaps to John it would have been a surprise. 

“You should start a blog or something. Or put it on your website, make it into ‘The science of…’ what do you call it – ‘tattoo deducing’?” 

Sherlock feels flattered by the suggestion, but the only reason why people look at his website is to see his critically acclaimed designs and perfectly executed tattoos. Not to read about murder. “No one would care to read it.”

“Oh, I don’t know… Like you’re telling it now? It’s like, crime novels in real life only with tattoos.” John seems intrigued. “You could write some of that down, for sure. I’d read it.” 

He is clearly deriving a vicarious thrill of danger and suspense from the stories. But Sherlock can tell by John’s breathing that he is well overdue for another painkiller, as well. He simply hasn’t noticed yet. 

Right on cue, John winces slightly. He looks at his own phone and says, “I should go up. Need to do some drawing still tonight.” 

He’s lying; he is going straight to bed. 

“It was great talking to you, though, Sherlock.” John seems to mean it. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock leaves him. He gets up and quickly walks outside for a cigarette. 

While he smokes, he can still hear John’s voice reverberate in his mind. Even the scientific details that tend to bore everyone who Sherlock usually attempts to converse with had John nodding. His knowledge of corpses in various states of decomposition was considerable as well - Sherlock particularly relished their discussion on the role of maggots in temperate climates. 

It was… a pleasant evening. 

 

-

 

Sherlock spends part of the night perfecting his drawing of Boudica. He sleeps a few hours, rises late, and intends to walk to the studio on his own, comfortably focused on a new and challenging tattoo. 

But when he exits the lift, Sherlock spots John sitting on one of the lobby’s sofas. 

Sherlock feels uncertain on whether to acknowledge him. John is likely waiting for the other contestants, and Sherlock has already been overly possessive of John’s time and attention last night. Sherlock ignores him and walks towards the revolving door.

“Oi, wait up, yeah?” 

Sherlock looks back to see John’s smile, and his stomach makes a slow turn at the realisation that John purposefully finished his breakfast early and sat down to wait for him. 

“Good morning, Doctor Watson.” 

John does not correct him today. “Morning.” In some undefined way, John seems to be more comfortable in his own skin than he was even a day ago, Sherlock thinks. 

John asks, “You ready for this?” 

“Yes.” Very much so. Sherlock greatly prefers working on his own. Today, he will be able to show off his work and his skills in depth. 

They start walking, as if by some agreement passing through the door together, and John says, “They gave you a present with that tattoo, didn’t they?” 

“I have worked with extensive scarring before,” Sherlock admits. He is the only artist out of the group who can pull this off in this exact way, and he knows it. Curiously, John seems to believe so as well. Sherlock glances at him. “So have you.” 

“Um... mainly as a doctor, though.”

“And your own.” 

“How…” John briefly hesitates before walking on. “Right, _how_ do you know my scars are covered?” 

Simple. “Probability.” Sherlock hasn’t been able to spot a single tattoo of John’s so far. John continually wears jumpers with neatly buttoned long-sleeved shirts underneath. He is practically _shrouded_ in layers. John is also a tattoo artist. If he feels the explicit need to cover himself with clothing, then he has very likely tattooed his entire body as well - scars included. 

“I did the front of my shoulder myself.” John’s mouth pulls at the memory. “The back was Mike. My leg, too. Full sleeve.” 

Sherlock hears himself say, “I tattooed my inner arms.” Using his left hand to tattoo was difficult, but he managed. 

John does not ask how Sherlock acquired scars there, and for a moment, Sherlock is surprised at the pleasure of that small fact. It is why he offers, “Drugs. Heroin, mostly. Occasionally cocaine. I have scarring on both my arms from injecting, as well as self-harm.” 

He once tried to dig a bug out of his skin with a Stanley knife on a bad trip. The scars were impressive. 

John nods, business-like. “You still using?”

Sherlock could lie in order to make himself appear more approachable. But the truth is that he can still find his veins easily enough through the tattoos. He admits, “I have been clean for fifteen months.” _This time._ He glances at John. “I have used off and on for around twenty years.” 

John takes it in stride. He utters no false platitudes, and no scorn, either. Perhaps he is exceptionally good at getting to the essence of things, Sherlock thinks. Or perhaps he simply does not care. 

“My client has lung cancer,” John offers. 

Ah. Sherlock had wondered. “Considering the age of the scars, she has been in treatment for at least four years. Impressive, considering there is a thirty-four percent one year survival rate for lung cancer after diagnosis in the UK, and only a twelve percent five year survival rate.” John’s client has already beaten the odds. 

If John is surprised by Sherlock’s knowledge, he does not show it. “She responded well to the latest round of chemo. She has another six months, I’d say. Maybe a year.” 

Indeed. Sherlock wonders for a moment whether he should fake compassion of some sort. Instead he says, “Somewhat of a shame, to tattoo someone near death. On the bright side, if your tattoo is unsatisfactory, she won’t have to carry it for long.” 

John bites his lip while he tries not to laugh. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock can feel a bright sense of pleasure at seeing John’s amusement. “What, is your work never unsatisfactory?” 

“ _God_ , you’re bad.” John shakes his head while laughing.

_Am I?_ Sherlock asks, “Is that another compliment, Doctor Watson?” 

Their eyes lock and remain that way for a long moment. 

“…I’ll let you know.” John grins. 

Sherlock forces himself to walk to his workspace and leave John behind - both of them need to focus on preparing for their clients. But the teasing tone of their conversation continues to play on his mind. 

John is married. He doesn’t wear a ring, but Sherlock has heard him say so. 

Of course, at least one third of all married men routinely cheat. Sherlock glances back at John. He is now bent over his tattooing bench while he pours out his inks. _Particularly the ones who are drawn to dangerous situations._

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

The cameras are set up, the clients arrive, and the count-down begins. 

“Three, two, one… tattoo!” 

Sherlock cautiously angles the privacy screen in order to be certain that his client’s chest will not be filmed. The woman takes off her top, and Sherlock applies the stencil onto her skin. He is concentrating on making the lines appear entirely straight when she says, “The old woman in your book… The one you tattooed, with the scars.”

“Hm?” Sherlock wipes down a bit of the stencil’s line. He takes a step back to look at her, then returns and draws it slightly to the side of her scar. 

“Is she… Is she okay? Right now I mean? It’s just, I can’t stop thinking…”

“She is perfectly fine. Seventy-three, fond of tea and daytime television.” Sherlock glances at her. “She is also, incidentally, my landlady.”

“Oh!” She smiles. 

Sherlock looks at the tattoo from a step away again to ascertain the legibility of the composition. It looks perfect. He says, “Please lie down.” 

The client lies back onto the tattoo bench. Sherlock collects his gloves, checks the small pots of ink and water he prepared, and adjusts the setting on his liner. He has always preferred using the pneumatic tattoo machines as they are lighter to work with. Also they can be put inside an autoclave without any disassembly. 

“Tattooing over your breastbone will be painful,” he warns. “I require you to keep perfectly still.” 

Then he dips his needles into the black ink and starts tattooing. 

Heavily scarred skin is unpredictable. Scars don’t hold the ink as well as undamaged skin so it’s even more challenging to smoothly transition from dark to light values, but Sherlock has planned for this. He has gone through the tattoo and every detail in his mind several times last night, so all he needs to do right now is execute his plan flawlessly. 

While he tattoos, Sherlock is entirely focused, to the point where when two hours later the client begs off for a break, Sherlock is surprised to hear her speak. He dislikes taking breaks while he is working, but he allows her exactly five minutes.

When Sherlock stands as well, he can see John tattooing [a colourful space-themed design](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfBX4EkBU0A/?taken-by=j.m.mee) at a steady pace. 

_Good._ Sherlock does not want to see him leave the competition yet. 

When his client returns, Sherlock immediately resumes tattooing. He makes certain to include as many details as possible on the chariot, as well as add highlights and small technical tricks that will make Boudica’s face appear lifelike. Sherlock has also tattooed decorative flowers on either side of the chariot, and most of the scarring itself will be hidden under them on either side. It is much easier to hide a line underneath a curved flower than it is under the straight chariot, but of course that means he needs to reserve a certain amount of time for the shading there as well. 

Sherlock remains focused. Black and grey tattooing is not a skill that he is particularly practised at, especially when it concerns a large area that needs to be blended gradually. The client breathes slowly in and out constantly, which means that his stencil is always in motion. She is breathing erratically at times because of the pain, but Sherlock cannot risk pausing again. 

He needs until the very last seconds to put in the level of detail he requires. He is still tattooing when the count-down begins. 

“Three, two, one… Tattoo machines down!”

Sherlock lowers his shader. He rinses the heated skin, wipes the excess ink and blood off the tattoo, and regards his work. [Queen Boudica](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfEGMFEhDPw/?taken-by=j.m.mee). The scars have swollen notably and are distorting the image - there is nothing he could have done to prevent that. He did place Boudica’s face high enough so that the scars’ distortion would be under the flowers. 

The client sits up gradually. She stands, and then stares in the mirror for a full minute. “My warrior queen…” She faces Sherlock. “She looks amazing. I love it.” 

Sherlock nods. He allows the crew to discreetly film the tattoo, and once they are finished, the client can leave. She thanks him once again, but without any displays of affection, which Sherlock is grateful for. He delivered a high quality tattoo, and that is all that matters. He does not like the clients who read more into his actions – he doesn’t _care_ for them, or their lives. Sherlock never has. The work itself is all that matters, his superior artistry. Not the subject. 

He meticulously cleans up his workspace. 

The other artists are either still with their clients, or stretching their tired limbs and chatting at the large table positioned in the middle of the studio.

Sherlock is craving a cigarette. Normally, he would go outside for one now, but there is a chair pulled away from the table next to where John is sitting. Sherlock glances at it, then starts forward, and lowers himself onto it. 

“Hiya,” John says, clearly fatigued. 

“Hello, John.” Sherlock is aware of his own unusual behaviour. But he could remain here for a moment, and then still go smoke if his presence is unwanted. 

“Earlier?” John smiles and slowly tells him, “It was a compliment. You’re honest. Brutally honest. I like that.” 

_Even more terms of endearment from the doctor._ “People only claim to crave honesty,” Sherlock argues. “They don’t truly.”

“No? What do people crave, then?” John stretches his arms.

Sherlock swallows. He answers, “Comforting lies. The presence of mendacity.” 

John looks him over. “You think I want that?” 

“No.” No, John Watson does not. That is why he is so interesting. 

A production assistant announces, “Everyone, we’re ready! Come over for judging please.” 

They rise from the chairs - John with some difficulty - and Sherlock adds, “…And that was a compliment as well, John.” 

Sherlock walks to his chair without waiting for a reply. He does not need to see John’s face at his comment. He meant it, and that is enough. 

As soon as everyone is seated, the judging commences. Mike, then Irene, and lastly Jim arrive at the podium. 

Jim wearing a Dolce and Gabbana shirt from this year’s fall collection with the sleeves rolled up, allowing them all a glimpse at the series of magpies he has tattooed on his forearms. 

There are thirteen, Sherlock knows. His eyes linger on the designs for a moment, until Jim catches him at it and grins. 

Sherlock looks away first. 

“…Raz and Bainbridge, the two of you won the flash challenge and you assigned the canvasses, therefore you will be critiqued first,” Mike says. 

A picture of Raz’s work is shown on the screen. He transformed self-harm scars on a lower arm into [a heavy Biomechanical piece](https://www.instagram.com/p/Be6JHxChLYh/?taken-by=j.m.mee). 

“You’ve used his muscle shapes to contour the mechanisms you put in there,” Irene notices. 

“It definitely shows skill,” Mike adds. 

Raz smiles widely. He obviously believes he has a chance at winning again. 

“Bainbridge, you’re up next.” Mike looks at the screen showing Bainbridge’s tattoo. 

He tattooed [detailed lettering](https://www.instagram.com/p/BevbwEuhItq/?taken-by=j.m.mee) over the appendix removal scar. It’s quite predicable. Not the best choice in terms of placement as well. 

Irene critiques, “From a distance, the lettering is too busy. It’s hard to read. But once you get up on it, it’s very tight and technically done.”

“So we don’t need to read it from afar, do we?” Jim asks idly. 

“Molly, let’s have a look at your cover-up,” Mike prompts. 

She covered an extensive burn scar with [a feather tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/Be8hBI6BPGJ/?taken-by=j.m.mee). Jim raises his eyebrows. “This tattoo came out _slick_.” 

“The feather texture really hides the scar tissue,” Irene adds. “Well done.” 

Soo Lin tattooed [a tree of life](https://www.instagram.com/p/Be0sNrGh5Ba/?taken-by=j.m.mee) – a very overdone subject, Sherlock believes – over an intricate web of stretch marks. 

“Were you afraid of aggravating the tissue?” Irene asks.

“Yes, a little,” Soo Lin admits. 

“It doesn’t fully hide the scars, because you were afraid of tackling them,” Mike notes.

Jim shrugs, obviously already bored with the design. “Passable.” He bounces on his feet a little. “Next!”

John’s work appears on the screen. “John…” 

Sherlock likes the definition of the scar tissue, even through John’s tattoo of a planet. It was a tunnelled venous or ‘Hickman’ catheter that left that scar. 

“When I first look at it, I don’t get an immediate sense of space, or a galaxy so much,” Irene says carefully. “I just see the one planet.” 

John did a fair job, Sherlock believes. Focusing on one planet was the only way to go with a colour realism piece depicting space. Those tattoos are impossible to make legible otherwise. 

“You have some decent colour blends. Saturated colour, as well as bright colour play,” Mike says.

Jim notes, “The scar is completely covered, which is more than I could say for some…” Soo Lin shifts in her seat. 

John nods stoically. 

He will be safe, Sherlock believes. There are some horrendous tattoos out there. 

Sherlock’s own work is shown on the screen next. The tattoo is exactly as smooth and technically accomplished as he had set out to do, and Sherlock feels a pulse of pride at seeing it. 

“Well, isn’t this _dramatic!”_ Jim is pretending to be shocked by the quality of Sherlock’s work. “The way you used the scar tissue to play into the texture of the flowers… Dazzling, Sherlock.” 

“That tattoo looks really smooth,” Mike says. 

Irene adds, “It’s a gorgeous image. You really gave her that warrior woman she asked for.”

Sherlock catches John’s smile from the corner of his eye. Ah. John is pleased for him. 

“Now, Wiggins…” The next tattoo appears and Mike asks, “This was an old scar from falling down a ladder?” 

“Yeah, it was.”

There is a large chunk of flesh missing, and Wiggins has tattooed [a Japanese dragon](https://www.instagram.com/p/BeyCMqyBwEB/?taken-by=j.m.mee) into the hole of the scar itself. 

Jim sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Oooh...” 

Wiggins winces. 

“As far as the overall shape of the tattoo…” Irene frowns. “The way it fits on the back is a very odd placement. It just doesn’t make any sense to tattoo there.” 

Clearly. No self-respecting tattoo artist would tattoo in a shaded, dipped area.

Janine is up last. As soon as her [tattoo of a tractor](https://www.instagram.com/p/Be-_pYCBhf2/?taken-by=j.m.mee) appears on the screen, Sherlock can see that she angled the stencil slightly against the scar, which is an enormous technical error, because it makes the entire design appear crooked. The black and grey shading is harsh as well. She treated it like she would treat a new school colour piece. 

Jim shakes his head and says softly, “Not that great, is it, Janine?” 

“I think it’s rather great!” Janine quickly defends herself. She smiles for the camera, but Sherlock can tell that she knows she made a mistake. 

“This isn’t to your usual standard of work,” Irene says. “The linework is shaky, and the shading is too dark to provide any contrast.” 

“Never mind that it’s _croo-ke-ed!”_ Jim seems exasperated. 

Janine’s eyes are blazing, but she remains silent. 

Mike quickly steps forward and says, “We have reviewed all of your work. We have had time to deliberate, and we are happy to announce today’s winner.”

Sherlock sits up straighter and eyes Mike. Will he have won? His work was the best of the day of course, but…

Jim announces, “The winner is…” His teeth reflect the camera’s light while he smiles brightly. “Sherlock!”

“Very well done, Sherlock. Both technically and artistically.” Mike appears to be genuinely happy for him. 

“You gave her a beautiful and proud tattoo,” Irene adds. 

Sherlock nods. He knew his work was superior. But it is pleasing to hear them say so. Now he simply needs to recreate this success, and he will win the entire competition. He is capable of it. He merely needs to prepare his designs well and execute them impeccably. 

“Sadly, we have to send someone home as well.” Mike looks at all of them. Janine would be in the running, Sherlock believes. But Wiggins’ tattoo was even worse.

Irene takes over to say, “...Wiggins, I’m sorry. Your work did not add up today.” 

“Damn.” He gets up quietly. 

Sherlock watches him go. The cameras pull back, and the judging is over. 

Raz leans over towards Sherlock to say, “Well done. That was a great tattoo you gave her.”

“Yes, really well done, Sherlock!” Molly smiles at him. “Congratulations.”

John meets his eyes and says, “Bloody marvellous, that tattoo.”

Sherlock grins. “I know.” 

 

\---

 

Sherlock watches the TV screen change into nonsensical advertisements. He turns it off. 

“Well, that was _lovely_ , Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson attentively watched the footage of Sherlock tattooing over the mastectomy scars. Sherlock saw her eyes tear up repeatedly, but now she smiles at him. “You did so well. Just like the butterflies you did for me. They’re ever so pretty, you know.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Lestrade. _“Fine work there, Sherlock! We all watched it. Putting bets on who’s going to win. I know you can’t say, but give us a hint if it’s you, yeah?”_

Right after, there is a rare text from Mycroft. _“Congratulations on your win in the elimination challenge, Sherlock. MH”_

Sherlock rolls his eyes – Mycroft already knows the outcome of all of this – and deletes both texts. 

“Well, that calls for a cuppa. What do you think, some Hobnobs?” Mrs. Hudson gets up.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but she ventures downstairs to fetch them anyway. 

John most likely watched this as well. Sherlock imagines John in a non-descript living room with an arm around his wife. Or possibly holding his infant daughter while pointing himself out on the TV to her. 

He looks at his phone again. 

They didn’t exchange numbers. The fact that John never once asked for it seemed trivial at the time, but then it was only a brief dalliance.  
There is no reason for John to desire any contact with him beyond what they had.

Sherlock has always been a realist above all. He knew perfectly well what they were doing, so there is no logical reason to still be emotionally invested in this. John chose to go home to his wife and child, and that was the end of it. 

But Sherlock still recalls moments between them in absurd detail. He continually produces sketches of John’s hands. John’s smile. John’s eyes. And in lonelier moments still - John’s body. 

Sherlock draws John’s tattoos from memory.

All of them.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Perspective (John)

 

 

John unlocks AGRA Tattoo’s shop door and turns the sign. Again. 

It’s 9am. Mary takes Rosie to nursery and ignores him on her way out. It’s fine - John’s used to it. They already weren’t talking before the competition. They already were unhappy. Or John was, at least. It’s just that he didn’t know it, then. 

Now, it lies over him like a thick and suffocating haze. 

John confessed to Mary that he cheated on her the day he came home. And yeah, maybe he _had_ wanted her to hate him. He had wanted Mary to tell him that he ruined it all, that this was the step too far, and that there was never going to be anything between them again. John realises that he had been spoiling for that fight, too. 

But she didn’t do any of that. Mary looked at him and said, “You’re staying,” and that was it. John was staying. It was all over and done with, except that it wasn’t. It lies between them every moment of every day. There’s not much worse than living like that. 

Or no, there is - watching the man he fell for on TV every week, _that’s_ worse. John can barely stand it.

The sad truth is that at least once a day, John looks though the shop window with his heart beating overtime, somehow convinced that was Sherlock just walking past. Or he feels a stab of adrenaline when there’s a new name added to his client list, because he thinks that it’s Sherlock being clever. John’s even been glancing at the other parents when he goes to pick Rosie up from nursery. 

But he is never going to show up, is he? Sherlock moved on three and a half months ago, and John _knows_ that. 

If he wants to leave this marriage, it isn’t going to be because Sherlock is waiting for him at the end of it. So is he going to walk out on his wife, kid, and the shop, all of it, for no reason? For _nothing?_

John stares through the shop window. He is waiting for his client, as well as watching the rain fall. 

He might. 

He might throw it all away. 

 

\---

 

Episode Three

John’s standing under a hot shower, trying to relax his muscles so he can make it downstairs before the painkillers have kicked in fully. The pain has been bad these last two days. His leg muscles are straining and pulsing continually. 

He holds on to the curtain rail and steps out of the bath, careful not to put his full weight on his leg, then wipes the condensation off the mirror to see his own mottled reflection. 

Sherlock was right that his scars are covered completely. John’s shoulder, his leg, there’s nothing to see there but tattoos now. They were one of the first bits he had done.

Right after Afghanistan, John felt like he was floating outside of his body. Useless, pointless, put aside. And then he walked into a tattoo shop and asked for the crest of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers on his upper arm. He went back to get a Rod of Asclepius on his other arm before the first even fully healed. 

He had enough money to waste. His combat pay was right there in his bank account, and he had no future to save it for. So John lived on the routine of ink, blood, and applying cling film wraps and lotion to various bits of his body. And slowly, he pulled himself together into someone he could recognise again. 

He is covered nearly completely now. His arms and legs, his stomach and back. John has angry tattoos, twisted snakes and snarling birds, cocked guns and screaming soldiers. He has grotesque scalpels, guts, and anatomy. He has a pink rose and a rocking horse for Rosie, and a dandelion for Mary. A Harley Davidson for Harry, a pocket watch for James, and a graveyard for everyone who died and he doesn’t remember a thing about except their faces and the blood. They’re part of him.

And so is the job, now. 

John never asks why someone wants a tattoo. Half of the time, they tell him, but it’s the clients who don’t say a thing that John likes best. They give him a vague description and a chunk of skin to cover, and John doesn’t ask anything more, he just gets to work. 

He knows the feeling. 

John remembers feeling so bloody _livid_ at himself. Alienated from what he was. Who he was, without a working leg. 

Sherlock was right about the chair, too. John should be raging about that as well, that Sherlock saw through him enough to know that the pain’s a weight he can’t ever struggle away from. It lives inside him and drags him down, to the point where John doesn’t know where his own self ends and his fucking _handicap_ takes over. 

He would have flown off the handle at anyone else suggesting that he needed a chair in that challenge. At anyone else talking like that about the war, too. But Sherlock just stated it as a fact, without judgement or a shred of pity. 

Of course he’s rude as hell, Sherlock. He’s unpleasant and self-obsessed, but John doesn’t mind one bit. John came here for a challenge, and he is being challenged, in a million ways. He feels more alive here than he has in years. 

John gets dressed and gives himself one more glance in the mirror. He looks like shit, really. Except for the glint in his eyes. 

He takes the lift down to the lobby.

Sherlock’s already there. He’s lounging on a designer sofa, dressed impeccably in a white shirt - opened just a button too low - and black trousers. He’s typing on his phone, his artfully tussled curls glinting in the bright light. Seeing him like this has the effect of a Caravaggio, John thinks. High drama and mastery, that’s Sherlock. 

“Doctor Watson.” Sherlock looks up over his phone. 

John’s been back from the war for almost five years now, so it shouldn’t matter anymore to hear anyone call him that. But Sherlock says it almost reverently, as if it makes him into something special. As if John’s still worth it, the title. 

“...Morning.” 

Sherlock jumps up from the sofa with the sort of limber grace that John could only dream of, and they walk in step through the doors. 

The winter sun’s out in full force today. While they walk, John can feel elation build in his chest with every chilly breath, as if today is going to be a good one. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and grins. 

It’s a damn nice feeling. 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

“Good morning, contestants!” Mike steps forward.

They’re in the big hangar again today for the flash challenge, but instead of cars, there are three work stations waiting for them. They all have a table and huge boxes of metal rods; alongside what John’s pretty sure is _welding equipment_. 

Mike speaks on, “You are once again competing for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.” 

He’s looking good. Mike’s getting better at the presenting thing, John thinks, he sounds a lot more natural. They’re all learning, aren’t they?

“Today’s challenge is to create a sculpture made out of just one material: metal rods,” Mike continues. “Using angle grinders and welders, you must bend and connect metal rods to create a dynamic sculpture out of nothing but lines.” 

Christ. John has never done any welding in his life. Maybe he should have prepared for this and taken a class or two. It’s too late now, though. John eyes the material. He can probably manage to make something? Hopefully. 

“You’ll be working in teams of two.” 

Right, well at least it won’t be just him, then.

“That means one person has to sit this one out,” Mike points out.

John can spot a chair in the corner, shoved in-between extra equipment. Is this because Sherlock interrupted that last challenge to tell him that he needed a chair? Did they put that little rule in there just so John could _have a rest?_ To sit on a chair doing nothing for hours while everyone else... 

“Sherlock, you won the cover-up elimination challenge, so therefore it is up to you to assign the teams. You can decide in which team you place yourself, or whether you are the one not participating.”

Sherlock nods at Mike, looking a tad arrogant, John thinks. Actually, more than a tad, the man’s proud as fuck, haughty, conceited, all of that. Is he going to put John on that chair? Because what, he ‘cares’? 

“I choose to compete.” 

‘Course he bloody does! John came here to compete, too, not to be put aside. John thinks of the extra painkillers he carries in his pocket and eyes Sherlock. _Don’t you dare._ He’ll take them all if he has to, but he’s doing this. 

Sherlock says without a hint of doubt, “With John.” 

...right. 

“All right.” Mike looks between them and gives him a quick, private smile as he says, “John, you are working with Sherlock.” 

John walks over to stand at Sherlock’s side. He belongs here, damn sure. He also feels like he just dodged a bullet. 

“Janine is sitting out,” Sherlock announces. 

She seems surprised to be picked. “...Fine by me.” 

So is John, why take _Janine_ out? And why work with him? John glances at Sherlock. It was nice enough to be chosen first, but Sherlock should have picked Raz or Bainbridge or someone like that in order to win. 

“Soo Lin and Molly will work together,” Sherlock continues. “As will Raz and Bainbridge.”

Molly smiles at Sherlock in clear thanks. Soo Lin nods at Molly happily as well. Raz and Bainbridge are already high-fiving. “Fuck yeah!” 

“Please wear the overalls and the welding goggles that are by your benches,” Mike instructs.

“...You did everyone a favour, then?” John’s surprised Sherlock chose the teams the way he did. It seems too easy. 

Sherlock gives him a look. “I chose to exclude Janine because she will find it highly unpleasant not to compete. With Bainbridge and Raz I expect them to be overly confident and to select a project excessively large or intricate. With the other two I am hoping for indecision and an inability to finish in the appointed time.” 

“Right, yeah.” John feels a bit weird. Of course Sherlock thought this through. He’s just playing the game. 

“You have five hours. Your time begins... now!” 

“And why me?” John awkwardly steps through the overall legs while holding on to the table. He hopes Sherlock hasn’t got him pegged for a welding genius or something like that. 

Sherlock says, while he zips up the overalls - they looks ridiculous on him - “I wanted to work with you.” 

Oh. John tries not to smile, but he is pretty flattered. “Me, too.” Not that he’s any good. “I’ll try not to fuck it up too much, then.” 

There’s a piece of paper and a pencil on their bench, and Sherlock grabs it authoritatively. He probably has a plan already, John guesses. “I would prefer to work on precision instead of artistry.” 

“Sure.” John nods.

Sherlock sketches out a rudimentary DNA double helix. “Opinions?” 

“…That’s perfect.” John smiles. “Let’s do it.” Or, actually - John feels a trickle of inspiration. He takes the pencil from between Sherlock’s fingers and re-traces the angle of the strand. “Let’s make it B-DNA? The rotation’s thirty four degrees.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “Agreed.”

Good. John looks at the pieces of metal. This thing is going to have to be huge if they want it to be accurate. He draws the schematic, while Sherlock measures the metal rods they have available and lays them out on the table. 

John can hear busy whispering coming from Soo Lin and Molly’s corner, as well as some nervous laughter. 

Raz and Bainbridge are still brainstorming as well. Janine is on the chair they assigned her, but she’s sitting close enough to them that she can suggest, “You could use the actual table as part of the sculpture. Weld it into a bench.” 

“You know, that could work.” Raz thinks about it.

“That’s a great idea, Janine!” Bainbridge seems to be on board. 

They’re from the same shop, John remembers. They’re mates, probably. 

Sherlock, somehow picking up on his thoughts, comments, “I believe they are in an alliance.” 

“Yeah.” It figures. John should be glad he’s still here, really. Working with Sherlock Holmes, too. John glances at him – he never would have thought he’d get to do this. 

Sherlock pulls the provided welding goggles over his forehead. He grabs the blowtorch and offers, “We are both talented enough to make it to the final.” 

“...I’d hope so.” John starts halving the measurements on the sketch. They can’t make this thing to be four metres high. 

Sherlock fires his blowtorch with a dramatic hiss. “Care to _forge_ an alliance, John?” 

John laughs. “Yeah.” Sherlock is just a big nerd, isn’t he? “Yeah, all right.” 

They get cracking. 

Five hours later, John has a series of small burns on his wrists where the overalls shifted and his skin peeked through, as well as singes on his shoes. 

But his leg’s not in any worse pain than it was when he started - Sherlock saw to that. Someone from production brought John an adjustable chair, and Sherlock kept on dictating how much to lower it for every strand John welded. The continuous movement meant John’s muscles didn’t stiffen up nearly as much as they usually do when he’s tattooing, and he got by just fine. 

Really, John’s starting to think Sherlock chose him because he could boss him around, self-important sod that he is. 

John can’t find it in himself to mind, though. 

Sherlock is standing precariously balanced on a step ladder’s top step, welding the last of the DNA strand. Sherlock’s curls are wildly pooling around the goggles, and the sparks of his welding are reflecting onto the lenses - he’s the textbook image of a mad scientist. Especially when he grins back at John, the welding sparks flying around them both. 

“Three…” Mike surprises them by starting the countdown. “Two… one… Welding is over!”

Sherlock jumps down from the step ladder and removes his gloves, then takes his welding goggles off. There are bright red lines left behind on his forehead and his nose. He’s sweating, too, and he has a high flush on his cheeks. He looks the most dishevelled John has ever seen him. It suits him. 

John pulls his eyes away and looks at their statue instead. It was hard work to bend the metal. He’s not sure if they’ll win, but what matters is that he did it. John can stand up without a wince, too. 

Soo Lin and Molly used the copper wiring for welding on their sculpture as well. They made some sort of animal skull – a deer, maybe? 

Raz and Bainbridge did use the actual table they were working on as part of their design like Janine suggested, and she’s chatting away with them now. They welded a top to it with an outline of a skull and roses. 

The judges saunter up, and the cameras film their approach.

“Bainbridge and Raz...” Mike leads the cameras towards their bench first. “Let’s take a look at what you did.” 

“A skull and roses?” Jim groans dramatically. “ _Try_ to be original next time.”

“I don’t know if it looks like the most comfortable bench in the world.” Irene looks it over. “But it’s a strong attempt.”

...Not a winner though, John thinks with a flash of hope. 

“Molly and Soo Lin.” Mike turns towards their statue. 

“Why a deer skull?” Irene asks. 

Soo Lin answers formally, “We chose the deer skull because it has a lot of curvature, which is the opposite of the material we were given.” 

Sherlock looks intrigued. He probably wishes he’d done it. Maybe he’s sorry he didn’t work with Soo Lin again. Or Molly. Was it Molly’s idea, that? She’s probably morbid enough for it, John thinks. 

“You got a lot of details just right.” Jim examines the skull with apparent glee. “The teeth at the bottom, the shape of the cranium, and the different layers of the eye sockets.” He looks up with a light in his eyes. “Creepy. I _like_ it.” 

“The copper wiring as well - very smart to use all your materials,” Mike adds. 

Molly and Soo Lin both seem happy with the critique. They should be, too. It is a great piece of work. 

“And lastly, John and Sherlock.” Mike leads the judges towards their DNA strand. 

“It definitely stands out,” Irene says. 

“A symmetrical bend…” Jim looks at them both. “Hard workers, you two.” 

They should have gone for weird, John thinks. Sherlock’s frustrated sound by his side is probably for similar reasons. They really did go for it on this one. 

The judges deliberate for less than a minute, before they announce, “The winners of the flash challenge are... Soo Lin and Molly!” 

Well then, another one done. John takes one last look at their DNA statue. It wasn’t bad, not at all. For never having done something like this, it’s bloody brilliant. 

But not enough to win. 

 

-

 

They’re ferried back to the studio for a late lunch, but when John gets out of the van, he spots Mike gesturing at him from behind the studio’s corner. 

They’re not allowed to talk to any of the judges away from the cameras. It’s in the contract John signed and everything. It’s sort of hilarious - John walks up to Mike feeling like he’s in some kind of spy film. “We’re doing secret meetings behind corners now?” 

Mike looks behind him carefully before he smiles and says, “Just thought I’d check in. How are you doing, John?” 

“I’m good.” John is, too. He feels better than he did this morning. The challenge went well, it’s all good. John eyes Mike. “Not stopping now, am I?” 

“I’d be surprised if you did.” Mike smiles with obvious pride. 

“Yeah, you wait - I’m gonna win this thing.” John jokes. 

“Are you? Well, that’s good to know.” Mike’s eyes crinkle around the corners.

They’re quiet for a moment. 

They were mates at uni, once. Then Mike dropped out and John didn’t see him again until years later when he - wrapped up in cling film and stinging with the bliss of a new tattoo - ran into Mike in a park and realised that shop he’d been eyeing near Barts with the great artwork was Mike’s very own. 

Mike offers, out of nowhere, “He wrongfully accused me of murder, once. Sherlock.” 

“What, seriously?” John’s never heard this story. 

“I spent a night in jail. In the meantime, Sherlock got who really did it.” Mike sounds almost fond of the memory. He shakes his head. “Terrifying, but he told me he would.”

“Didn’t even know you two knew each other.” Then again, Mike seems to know everyone there is to know in the business. 

“Oh, yes, for years now. He’s a good man, Sherlock.” Mike looks at him. “He’ll never say it, but he is.” 

“...right.” John taps his cane against the pavement. 

Mike looks around again. “Well, we better...”

“Sure, yeah.” John starts off towards the studio so Mike can go the other way around the building. 

Everyone’s gone already. John wouldn’t have minded getting to chat with Sherlock some more, but then he’s probably not in the mood after losing anyway. He probably already disappeared to wherever he goes during break times.

John goes inside and sits down at the large table in the studio next to Molly instead. 

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Molly is still smiling. “I mean, I don’t know… I’ve never used a blowtorch before, but I loved doing it.”

John can honestly say, “Me, too. Good challenge.” He grabs a cheese and pickle sarnie and looks at Soo Lin, sitting across from them. “You knew how to do it then?” 

“I have taken several steel sculpture courses, yes.” Soo Lin smiles at Molly. “’Introduction to ceramics’ was filled up.” 

Molly laughs. 

“Yo!” Raz takes a seat next to Soo Lin. “That skull was sick. It deserved to win, that.”

“…Your bench was very inventive.” Soo Lin returns the compliment. 

“Hey, thank your man Sherlock, yeah? We didn’t win, but he still did us good, pairing us up,” Raz tells John. 

“Yes.” Molly nods. “He was nice to… He was.” 

Soo Lin adds, “He chose very well.” 

_Your man Sherlock._ “I’ll tell him,” John promises. 

Bainbridge and Janine join them as well. Bainbridge is enthusiastically saying, “Calder though, he took the idea of a kinetic sculpture to a whole new level.” 

Janine says, “I like the beach sculptures, oh, I can’t remember his name...” She asks the table at large, “Does anyone know the bloke who made the mobile statutes moved by wind?” 

“Theo Jansen,” Soo Lin pipes up. “He’s a Dutch artist.” 

Raz takes his phone out. “He on Youtube?” 

John barely knows who any of these modern art people are. Or why they’re on Youtube. He eats his lunch and lets his mind wander. 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re still loudly Youtubing art installations. Janine says, “That’s Antony Gormley’s Another Place. It’s on Crosby Beach in Liverpool, that.” 

John’s done eating. He mumbles, “Off for a walk,” grabs his cane, and doesn’t wait for anyone’s reply. He might as well go have a look where Sherlock ended up.

The weather’s glorious. The bright sun is warming the air a little, and it makes it feel like spring, even though it’s still cold out. 

John doesn’t see Sherlock anywhere, so he walks a slow circle around the studio. He eventually spots him on a low wall, reclined on top of it, with his hands clasped and eyes closed. 

Sherlock’s eyes open slowly when John walks up. “Checking up on me, Doctor?”

“Everyone was chatting. Thought I’d escape,” John confesses. 

“You go through great lengths to appear both approachable and sociable, but in truth...” Sherlock yawns. “Useless conversation bores you as much as it does me.” 

Like a lot of the stuff that Sherlock says, John feels like he ought to argue that statement. But it’s more fun to just reply, “People are shit, really.” 

Sherlock grins at that, and John lowers himself down to sit on the wall next to Sherlock’s feet. The sun feels nice. So does the fresh air of the docks. 

“Mike said you locked him up once,” John mentions. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock smiles briefly. “He was essential in catching a murderer. He held up well.” 

The wind blows against John’s face, and he can feel himself relax. Sherlock seems to be settled down as well. 

_Your man Sherlock._ John remembers to say, “Raz said thanks for the teams. Molly, too.” 

Sherlock doesn’t seem bothered, so John closes his eyes for a bit as well. He’s not that tired, but the sun is bright, and the moment seems to flow, calm and quiet. 

When John opens his eyes again, Sherlock is looking straight at him. John looks back, with his heartbeat slowly pulsing in his chest. He opens his mouth to speak – but Sherlock says, “The challenge awaits,” then swings his legs over the wall and jumps up. 

John can see the effortlessness of his movement and feels an ache he tells himself is admiration. 

He’s allowed that much. 

 

-

 

Once they’re back inside, they gather on the tall chairs again, ready to hear what the next challenge is going to be. 

As soon as the camera operator signals him, Mike announces, “Good afternoon, contestants. Your next elimination challenge has been set by… Irene!” 

Jim takes over to say, “It concerns her speciality: realism, proportion, and...” He waggles his eyebrows. “...beautiful women.” 

John catches Sherlock’s wince and suppresses a smile. Yeah, it’s a bit cheesy, the way they announce these things. 

“You will be tattooing a pin-up,” Irene says. 

All right. John doesn’t mind them. 

“I am looking for a full-body drawing of a woman that is in proportion, along with a readable face.” Irene sounds deadly serious now she’s talking about her own specialty. “You will need to hit that rockabilly vibe as well - make them beautiful women, iconic, and representative of an era gone by.” 

“You must tattoo your pin-up from head to toe,” Mike instructs, “Including her hands and feet. Not only must the head, hips, and chest strike the right balance, but the tiny body parts such as fingers, eyes and hair must also be rendered correctly.” 

Well, if that’s all they want… John’s pretty good with pin-ups though. He doesn’t do them that often, but he knows the basics better than most people here, probably. 

“Let’s meet your canvasses,” Mike says. 

A row of clients walk in.

“Molly and Soo Lin, you two won the welding flash challenge, which means that you have the power to assign the canvasses.”

They both rise, and Soo Lin asks the first client, “What kind of pin-up are you looking for?” 

“I want a Lady Justice.”

Hm. Not really a pin-up, that. Hard to do that in a fifties style as well. Justice is dressed in flowy robes usually, isn’t she? 

The next client wants a Medusa. The one after that a winged valkyrie on his ribs. John doesn’t much fancy doing that tattoo – it hurts like hell, and it’s one of the worst places for a pin-up. 

“I want a barber shop theme pin-up... on my bum.” Christ. 

“An Amazonian pin-up.” 

“A pin-up that’s fishing.” 

“I want a naked woman sitting on a handgun.” John looks up. He’d like to tattoo that - for sure. 

But it’s not up to him. Molly and Soo Lin deliberate for a bit, then Molly announces, “I will tattoo the Lady Justice pin-up.” 

“I pick Medusa,” Soo Lin says. 

They give the winged valkyrie on the ribs to Bainbridge, Janine is assigned the Amazonian pin-up, and Sherlock gets the fishing one. 

They choose, “Raz... You are doing the barber shop pin-up.” 

“ _Fuck_.” Raz curses, then grins at the bloke who wanted the tattoo on his arse. “All right. I’ll do it.” 

John understands why they gave it to him - Raz is good, so they assign him to do the hardest tattoo of the day. It’s tough luck for him though. 

“The handgun is for John.” 

Yes! John smiles at Molly. Great, that. He got lucky. John would have tattooed an arse if he had to, but this is much better. 

They all walk over to their clients. 

John has a quick chat with his client about what he would like to put in there, then finds his laptop and starts sketching to give the client an idea of what he’s thinking. 

Half an hour later, John is sitting by the large table, finding references of various handguns – he’d like to do a Glock, but the client prefers an older model – when Sherlock leans over his shoulder and looks at his work. 

John doesn’t look up from his drawing; he was working on a tricky line. “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?”

Sherlock is slow to respond. He sounds thoughtful when he says, “Given your previous profession, you owned a Sig Sauer P226R, or possibly a Browning L9A1. You would have kept it after your discharge, but I’m uncertain whether you would have sold it after the birth of your child, or whether she is considered too young to be able to reach it and you still keep it in the house.”

_Your child._ It’s weird to hear Sherlock mention Rosie. It’s not like John hasn’t thought of her, it’s just that the competition seems much more immediate. He says, “She’s eighteen months old. She can’t get into the wardrobe, and I store the bullets separately.” 

Oddly, that never was a fight with Mary. Or not yet, maybe. They can move it when Rosie’s older. To be honest, John hadn’t even considered gun safety around her. 

John thinks that he’s probably meant to talk about Rosie’s accomplishments now. Or Mary’s. 

He admits, “She wasn’t planned. An accident, we found out right after the wedding, so we… We had her.” John can’t bring himself to want it any other way. Except for the crying and the snot and nappies and the fact that he never thought he’d have a kid, but there you go. 

“What is her name?” Sherlock looks at him. 

“Rosie,” John says. 

“Ah.” Sherlock simply accepts it and wanders off to work on his own pin-up. 

John sketches various perspectives for the gun, and then starts on the pin-up itself. After another hour, everyone’s done consulting with their clients and there’s enough footage of them working, so they’re excused.

They all go back to the hotel. 

John lies down to rest his leg for a bit and thinks about his gun again. Really, John half-expected Sherlock to tell him that he kept it instead of ask, considering how he seems to have it all figured out. Or deduced, whatever Sherlock calls it. It’s like he already knows every single secret of John’s, whether John admits to them or not. 

By seven, John pulls himself together and ventures downstairs. He’s thinking he’ll spend the evening talking to Sherlock again. Maybe hearing more about the cases he mentioned. 

But when John walks into the restaurant, Sherlock is already there, sitting at a table surrounded by Molly, Janine, and Soo Lin. 

John can feel a flicker of annoyance. They’re all good-looking women. Gorgeous, really. 

Not that Sherlock looks to be particularly amused. They’re busily in conversation. While John walks up, he overhears Molly asking, “…don’t enjoy tattooing pin-ups, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s lips shape a small ‘o’ when he says, “ _No_.”

“I don’t think it’s his _thing_ , scantily clad women.” Janine laughs, her implication clear. John immediately looks at Sherlock. 

“Not my area.” Sherlock says it easily.

“They are Irene’s.” Molly has a faint flush under her tattoos. “Um! I _mean_ -” 

“Molly!” Janine laughs at her wording. 

“I just meant that she started out as a burlesque dancer, and…” 

John pulls over a chair from another table and takes a seat next to Sherlock. “Hiya.”

“John.” Sherlock doesn’t say any more. 

“I have never seen a burlesque show,” Soo Lin muses. 

“I have, I have this friend, she does an act with balloons now, it’s hilarious. She was at the Fringe, she…” Janine talks on. 

Sherlock stays quiet, John’s not sure why. The women are all getting on though, and they’re carrying the conversation easily. John focuses on eating, although he barely tastes the food. 

Sherlock turns his fork around in his tagliatelle. 

“Irene’s also been trying to revive Victorian Burlesque acts.” Molly tells them. “They were mostly about gender reversal back then, like ‘breeches roles’.”

Soo Lin comments, “You know her work well.”

“I, ah, I read her book,” Molly admits.

“Is that ‘Scandal - Life of a Tattoo Diva’?” Janine asks.

“Yes! It’s so good. And she...” Molly shakes her head. “Well, she’s someone to look up to, isn’t she? A woman who made it in the business.” 

“There’s the Soho Burlesque Club in London. We could go some time. Front row, what do you think, ladies?” Janine asks. 

“Oh, yes!” Molly seems happy with the idea. 

“It would be very interesting,” Soo Lin agrees.

Sherlock gets up with a sudden screech of his chair. 

“Sorry.” John nods at all of them and stands, too. He follows Sherlock out. 

They walk out of the lobby, though the revolving doors, into the dark, and Sherlock lights a cigarette as soon as they’re outside. 

Jesus, that was boring. John would joke about it, but Sherlock’s still quiet. Is he annoyed about Janine implying what she did, that he’s gay? John already thought Sherlock might be. Really, the man’s dressed like a model – John would have to be blind not to at least think about the possibility. 

And he did. Think about it.

“Give me one?” John hasn’t smoked in ages, but watching Sherlock smoke constantly reminds him of the craving. 

Sherlock wordlessly hands John a cigarette, then the lighter. 

The cane’s in John’s hand, so he leans it against his leg to light up. The brief touch of paper against his lower lip feels surprisingly familiar. So is the burn in his lungs. John smoked for a couple of years at school. Everyone did, back then. Even though it’s been two decades, he remembers the taste, as well as the feeling that went with it. It’s a good memory. Smoking behind the bike sheds, things like that. Being young and reckless. 

The smoke curls around them both. It’s cold out, and neither of them wore their coats. 

Another draw, and Sherlock still hasn’t said anything, so John risks, “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” 

Sherlock looks at him as if he’s thick. “As I said, not my area.”

Right, so he is gay. John tries not to care, but his voice sounds a tad hoarse when he asks, “Boyfriend?” 

Sherlock blows out a cloud of smoke. “No.” 

John shifts his weight from one leg to the other when his muscles spasm painfully. It’s a clear night. There are stars. 

He hands the lighter back. Their fingers brush together in a brief touch that has John’s breath catching in his throat. _I’d want..._

After a lingering moment, Sherlock pockets the lighter.

“Should go back. Focus on that pin-up.” John doesn’t go yet. Despite himself, he waits for Sherlock to make the counter offer. _No. Stay. Talk to me, Doctor._

Sherlock glances at him. His eyes are hooded by the dark. 

“Well, night.” John walks off. 

He hobbles back into the bright warm lobby and catches a glimpse of Molly, Soo Lin, and Janine, still laughing around the table. They’ve ordered a bottle of wine now. He could join them, if he wanted to. He takes the lift up to his room instead. 

John lies down on his bed and tries to get his head straight. It’s not even nine yet. He didn’t have a drink. There’s nothing to blame for what he was angling for back there. But he’s married. He has a kid. This isn’t _him_ anymore. 

He needs to handle it, that’s all. 

So he does - John sneaks his zip down and pulls his cock out. He has a slow wank, lying on his bed, thinking of _nothing_. 

He can still taste the cigarette smoke on the back of his tongue.

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

John wakes up in the morning still wearing yesterday’s clothes. 

He texts Mary, tells her he’s doing well, and to give Rosie a hug. He takes some painkillers, and while he waits for them to work, he showers and avoids his own eyes in the mirror.

When he walks into the lobby, John looks around, but Sherlock isn’t waiting there today. Not that Sherlock _should_ wait for him, of course. 

But John wonders how weird it was last night, really. Or how obvious he was being. He already feels enough like an idiot - Sherlock’s probably not even remotely interested in him like that. So this is John’s problem, not Sherlock’s. It was the memory of some old desires, that’s all. 

For the first time in several days, John walks to the studio on his own. 

Once there, he can see Sherlock sitting alone at the large table and drawing intently. John can see the lines of Sherlock’s pin-up and the fish in the foreground when he walks closer, but Sherlock doesn’t look up from his drawing. 

“Hey, I…” John swallows. _Be bloody brave, Watson. Just come out and say it._

Sherlock’s eyes flash to his. 

John chickens out and goes with, “That’s looking good. The fish.”

“It’s a Crucian carp,” Sherlock says, managing to sound faintly offended by the fact that John called it a fish.

“Right, yeah.” John leaves Sherlock bent over his drawing and goes to focus on his own, feeling like an arse. 

What John meant to say was ‘I didn’t mean for that to be weird there.’ And ‘I’ve been with men, too. If you hadn’t guessed.’ And ‘Pretty sure I’m bi, myself.’ But he’s not used to saying any of that. At the point where he was about ready to come out, finally - age forty, mind you - he met Mary. And being bi in a straight marriage doesn’t matter, does it? 

The clients come in, and John doesn’t have time to think on it any more, he needs to bloody focus. 

Mike announces, “You have six hours to tattoo a pin-up. Three, two, one… tattoo!” 

John places the stencil onto his client’s skin, assembles his dual-coiled machine, and starts tattooing. 

There was James, last. 

_Major James Sholto._ He never came to their wedding, even though John invited him. But he showed up in the shop - it must be two years ago now, because Mary was pregnant, John remembers that much. One day he was standing in the middle of the shop, in full dress uniform. Asking for a tattoo. 

John scheduled him in that same day. 

They didn’t talk much. Or at all, really, with Mary so close by. 

The scars on James’ face were unfamiliar. The deep sadness in James’ eyes was new, too, but John could look past it and see the man he’d wanted, once. 

James brought a list with the names of the soldiers in his unit that were killed when his last mission went wrong. John tattooed all of them across the sensitive stretch of his ribs. John could feel the faint thudding of James’ heart under his gloved hand the whole time. 

And then, when it was done, John wrapped the tattoo and allowed him to leave. 

They never spoke again. 

John is in the middle of the details of the gun in his [pin-up tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfL4Gm6hd_m/?taken-by=j.m.mee), lining the barrel, and not paying attention to anything else around him, when Sherlock’s rich baritone says behind him, “Her right leg is positioned slightly crooked. Erase the stencil and adjust it by hand.”

“Excuse me?” John faces Sherlock. 

Sherlock tilts his chin up. “We are in an alliance.” 

They are. John doesn’t need to project his shit onto Sherlock, not when they’ve been getting along so well. He needs some friends here, doesn’t he? So John takes a damn breath and says, “Make sure you blend properly. Don’t use your liner for colour.” 

Sherlock leaves. 

An hour later, John gives his client a break, walks over to Sherlock’s space, looks over his shoulder at his [fishing pin-up](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfbSJOyB4DB/?taken-by=j.m.mee) and tells him, “That fishing rod can use a contrasting tone. It’s realism, but contrast ages better.” 

The second time Sherlock comes around, it’s about the gun’s nuzzle. 

Then John goes to talk about Sherlock’s pin-up’s expression. “She looks concerned about the damn fish. Not sexy, that.” 

Sherlock returns to complain about the colouring. “This isn’t entirely classic old school, John. Do stop seeing everything through your self-imposed chosen style.”

“Yeah, but her face is bloody wacked, Sherlock!” 

After he’s gone, John’s client asks carefully, “That artist doesn’t like your work?” 

John laughs. “Don’t need him to like it.” Just say what he thinks, John thinks. Just be brutally honest, that’s the kick he needs. 

“Three, two, one... Tattoo machines down!” 

John cleans off the tattoo, wraps it up, and says goodbye to the client easily enough. Then he walks over to Sherlock’s space again like he’s being pulled there by a magnet. “You manage to finish that fish?” 

“ _Crucian carp_ , John.” Sherlock grins. 

“Fine, yeah, your carp.” They both linger in the smile. John’s not sure what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter. It feels good to just be here for a bit. “You were going to tell me about that Italian Mafia case.” 

“...The Black Hand.”

“Hmm.” They move to the tall chairs together, and John feels that prickle of greatness again, that sense that together, they can _do_ this.  
He says, daringly, “If I win tonight, I wanna hear it.” 

Sherlock counters, “And what if you don’t win?”

“Then I’ll win tomorrow.” John grins. “For the story.” 

“I see.” Sherlock smiles. 

“Hiya, John.” Bainbridge breaks the moment when he takes a seat next to him and asks, “How did it go?” 

“Good, good.” 

“I fucked up on that arse, man.” Raz sounds annoyed. “Fucking skin, it’s like tattooing a bloody balloon.” 

Mike appears on the little stage, with the other two judges behind him. “Time to start the judging. Molly and Soo Lin! You two are up first.” 

They all look towards the screen, and [Molly’s Lady Justice](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bflym2ahDng/?taken-by=j.m.mee) appears. 

It’s a nice tattoo, John thinks. Soft - he could pick out Molly’s work easily by now, no one else shades the way she does. He can see a flicker of appreciation in Sherlock’s eyes, too. 

“Good technique here.” Jim’s in a flashy plaid suit today. He doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but then Jim’s not one to care for the ladies, either, John remembers reading it somewhere. He’s been out for ages. 

Sherlock shifts on his seat. 

“I really like these legs, the way that they’re shaded, the position, I think they’re beautiful.” Irene smiles. “I like the way you coloured this piece as well. It’s got a very soft look in the dress. A strong tattoo, Molly.”

Next is [Soo Lin’s Medusa](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfoLx4jhMy2/?taken-by=j.m.mee). It’s not a traditional pin-up at all, but it really pops. 

“Interesting approach you took, Soo Lin.” Mike looks at the screen.

“I am fond of the spots you have created.” Irene seems fascinated. “It adds a nice detail, an otherworldliness, and it all also helps guide the sinew of the body and the musculature of this figure in a really positive way.” 

It is a stunning tattoo, John thinks. It’ll age well, too. Soo Lin’s really got talent for this sort of thing. 

“Sherlock.” They show Sherlock’s pin-up. John has seen his work plenty this time around, but still it’s nice to see it projected up there like that. 

Irene says, “I like the perspective on the tattoo. I think overall the composition is great, as well.” 

“Even if it is more about the fish than the pin-up?” Jim comments as if he’s joking at Sherlock’s expense. 

Sherlock, oddly, says absolutely nothing. 

Irene smiles. “Arguably. But it’s solid work.” 

“Bainbridge, let’s have a look at yours.” [Bainbridge’s valkyrie tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfjFq76hzzP/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is a mess. The more John looks at it, the more technical bits he can see that could have used some work. 

“It’s not even remotely in proportion,” Jim points out. He’s right. 

“The back leg is too small. The anatomy is totally off - her chest lines to the right, and then her stomach is all the way to the left. That turn is a physical impossibility.” Irene faces Bainbridge. “You lost this at the drawing.” 

Raz is up next. He’s looking like he’s expecting the worst. John can’t blame him, especially when his [barber shop pin-up](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfeOB__BHx2/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown. 

“How did this go, Raz?” Mike asks. 

“Fucking awful, man! When he was lying down, everything was exactly where it needed to go, and now…” Raz gestures at the image.

There isn’t a well-pulled line in the pack. It’s awful, really. 

“Listen.” Irene sits up straighter. “I’ve tattooed _a hell of a lot_ of arses.” 

Jim grins widely. Mike attempts not to smile, but it’s a close call. 

Irene pays no attention to either of them and continues, “There is only one way to get them done. You take that person, and you bend them into a ball, tilt them on their side, and you _make_ that arse tight as a drum. I don’t care how saggy it is, you make that thing tighter than the table! I can’t believe you tattooed the way you did.” She eyes Raz seriously. “This might have been the end for you.” 

John feels for him. Irene’s right about the skin, John learned to do it like that as well, but Raz never asked to do this, did he? Molly looks a bit guilty too, for assigning it to him. 

They’re up to Janine. Her [Amazonian pin-up](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfgkF-QhydS/?taken-by=j.m.mee) looks all right at first glance. Not that great though. 

“The tattoo itself is readable, but what I don’t like about this is that it’s so stiff.” Irene looks at it closely. “Her back shoulder, the way it comes off behind her chin, it’s not powerful. She’s just holding onto her staff for dear life.” 

Mike adds, “The way that her left arse cheek eventually curves around and connects to that front leg is askew.”

“This is a perspective challenge, and that’s wacked out of proportion. AGAIN.” Jim seems exasperated. 

John’s own tattoo is up last. His pin-up looks good, he thinks. The gun’s flawless. And the lines are even. 

“I really like this tattoo.” Irene seems pleased. “It’s clean, simple, and it tells the whole story.” She meets his eyes. “Technically one of the best tattoos of the day.” 

“Good details. Clean outline, no wobbles, and an accurate gun,” Mike says. 

John’s pleased enough with that. It was good, really. 

Mike announces, “The judges have deliberated, and we have voted on the best tattoo of the day.” 

Jim argues, “If Molly punched in the colour like Soo Lin did, that would have been bullet-proof tattooing. But it’s faded as is. So I say Soo Lin.” 

“The proportions in John’s are more spot-on. My vote is for John.” Irene says it with conviction. 

Mike takes a breath and says, “My vote is for Soo Lin’s Medusa. It was original and beautiful work. Thereby judges have decided: the best tattoo of the day goes to Soo Lin.”

Well, fuck. John nearly had it. Again. He shares a look with Sherlock. No murder story tonight, then. 

Soo Lin doesn’t celebrate beyond a slight smile when Molly whispers to her, “Congratulations!” 

“Now, for the worst tattoo of the day, we had to decide between Raz, Bainbridge...” Mike seems stern. “And Janine.”

Janine comments quickly, “I don’t think mine was the worst out there, or Bainbridge’s.” She throws a look at Raz. “Not at all.” 

“It was the placement!” Raz seems frustrated. “If I could have done this in any other spot, you KNOW I would have-”

“Yeah, but you didn’t, did you?” Janine seems more than ready to argue her way into staying. “You should have convinced your client to-” 

“The judges have decided.” Mike raises his voice. “The artist going home is...” He looks between all three of them to ramp up the tension. “…Raz.”

“FUCK, that’s not fair!” Raz seems proper gutted. 

Bainbridge immediately stands to hug him and tells him, “Sorry, man.” 

It is too bad; John thought Raz was one to make it ‘till the end, too. Still, that’s competition out of the way. Molly and Soo Lin did them all a favour. 

Raz says his goodbyes, and the cameras stop filming. 

 

\--- 

 

John lies in bed, turned away from Mary. They’re both awake under the heavy, flowery duvet. 

The images from this evening’s episode are still fresh in John’s mind. Cut together and edited like these shows are, he’d thought that maybe it wouldn’t be there, whatever _it_ was between him and Sherlock. But John’s own face was staring at him from the TV screen tonight, looking _so_ happy. So alive. It was painfully clear he couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock every time he was near him, even back then already. 

Mary abruptly turns in the bed, and then sucks in a breath to speak. “It was _him_ , wasn’t it?” 

John swallows. 

“I assumed a woman, one of them there - Irene, probably. Maybe Janine. But no.” Mary says it slowly, like she can’t fathom those words going together. “It was him.” 

John looks up at the ceiling and admits, “Yeah.” He coughs. “Sherlock.”

“You’re gay?” Mary asks it sharply. 

“No.” Maybe it’d be easier if he was, John thinks. If it had all been some late in life revelation. “It’s… both. For me. I like both. Always have.” 

Mary stays silent. 

John thinks about their life. The shop. Rosie, and all they built together. He turns his head to look at Mary, even though he can’t see a thing. He says, “I chose this, Mary. Us - I wanted it,” already knowing it’s in the past. 

“But not anymore.” Mary doesn’t phrase it as a question; she knows it’s true as much as John does. 

John feels remarkably calm. He breathes. “I’m sorry.” He is. He truly is. 

“Sleep on the sofa tonight.” Mary turns in the bed. “Move out tomorrow.” 

“Right.” John pulls back the covers and sits up. “Right.” He takes his pillow. 

He doesn’t linger by the door. He grabs the extra bedding from the airing cupboard in the hall, and then makes himself a bed on the sofa. John stands there with his bare feet on the cold floor arranging sheets and tries to find… anything. Anger. Sadness. 

But it’s fine. John knew ages ago. He knew before Sherlock, really. It’s just being around Sherlock made it impossible to ignore any longer. 

That there’s supposed to be more.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Precision (Sherlock)

 

 

Time was meant to make this more bearable. 

The weekly airing of episodes does nothing of the sort, however. Every week again, Sherlock has to remind himself that a temporary connection forged by circumstance meant _nothing_. Any attempt to contact John would be entirely unwelcome. 

Notwithstanding, Sherlock watches the show religiously. He downloads the episodes and re-watches them at night. It is torture to see John and himself together on the screen. Sherlock wonders how obvious it is to anyone watching that he wanted him, and whether he might expect an angry phone call from a certain Mary Watson at some point. Or, and this would be worse, whether it is undetectable for most. Whether all he felt and saw was not recorded, but left to be forgotten between the images and behind the scenes. 

Sherlock schedules weeks full of clients, but the reward of the work seems hollow now. 

He repeatedly considers heroin, then dissuades himself. Still, the temptation pulses heavy under his skin. 

He calls Lestrade and begs to be let onto a case, then pays an impromptu visit to the morgue. The entire time he is there, Sherlock thinks of John and how he might have enjoyed this. How John would have laughed at every barbed comment of Sherlock’s, outwardly shocked, but in fact truly amused. 

Of course that’s merely a fantasy, and a sad one at that. But Sherlock finds it hard to completely eradicate John from his mind. More than that, he cannot bring himself to delete the memory of him. 

Not yet. 

 

\---

 

Episode Four

Sherlock waits in the hotel lobby. He is purposefully early and in the possession of coffee - regrettably in two disposable cups with plastic lids. It is, however, a far superior blend to what is served at the hotel breakfast. 

Yesterday morning, John mentioned, “A decent cup of coffee, I could go for that.” 

Sherlock finds that he hears everything when it is being said by John. He hears the words themselves, but he also listens for the truths both gentle and sharp that are hidden underneath. It was easy, to wake up early, spend ninety minutes reviewing various tattoo styles and their characteristics, and then dress and visit several well-reviewed coffee places in and around Canary Wharf to select the best. 

He calculated well. He has only been waiting for three minutes and fifty seconds when the lift pings and John walks out. 

“Doctor,” Sherlock says, savouring the word. 

“Morning.” John walks up to him. 

John is relying on his cane more heavily than usual and he has a brittle edge to him signifying that his pain medication has not yet sufficiently entered his bloodstream. Sherlock has seen it around him before in the mornings. He would suggest that John self-inject morphine instead of relying on oral pain medication, but then John must be aware of the possibility himself. 

Instead, Sherlock reveals the cups of coffee from behind his back and presents them to John. “The Papua New Guinea Virgin Mountain blend with taste notes of brown sugar, honeydew melon, and persimmon.” _I have brought you distraction._

“Oh, ta!” John accepts a cup easily. He takes a sip of the coffee and looks down at the paper cup. “It’s good. Strong.” Then he considers, “You went out just for this?” 

Sherlock finds himself saying, “Caffeine increases productivity.” 

“You went out to get special coffee _to increase our productivity._ ” John gives him a slow smile. 

Sherlock can feel his stomach wave, probably because he is far from used to sampling several signature coffee blends this early in the morning. “We are in an alliance, John. It is perfectly sensible.” 

John laughs, a beautiful laugh that seems to make all of him come alive and briefly relaxes the tense lines around his eyes. “Well, come on then.” He tilts his head towards the studio. “Let’s go put that caffeine to good use.” 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

As there are only six of them left, they fit into one van now. 

Sherlock considers John, in front of him and two spaces to the right. John generally grows more talkative around thirty minutes after ingestion of his medication, but today the walk over to the studio was still a challenge for him despite the excuse of coffee. It rained overnight. Perhaps the moisture in the air has an effect on John’s old injuries. Or perhaps these challenges have been cumulative in their difficulty for him - Sherlock is not certain how chronic pain builds within the human body. 

Once they arrive in the familiar hangar, it becomes clear there is another art challenge waiting for them. There are rows of spray paint standing ready next to three of the walls. 

“Raz would have aced a graffiti challenge,” Bainbridge says regretfully. 

Janine’s reply is a pragmatic “Good thing he’s gone, then.” 

“Good morning, contestants!” Mike introduces the challenge. “Today, you are once again competing for a hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.”

The group is visibly shrinking. Sherlock is relatively certain that he himself will continue to do well in the competition – his talent is superior to most, if not all artists here - but with tattooing, not challenges such as this one. 

Graffiti has long been associated with tattooing and counter-culture, of course. There is something of interest to be found in the iconography as well as in the practise of tagging in relation to crime scenes – Sherlock has documented said practises in detail. But the imprecise lines as well as the oftentimes garish colours have never appealed to him, so the application itself is not entirely within Sherlock’s own expertise.

“As always, we start with a flash challenge. This week, your challenge is creating a design using the word ‘ink’ on one of these walls. You will only be allowed to use red, black, and white spray paint. You will be judged on lettering, creativity, readability, and precision.”

Lettering tattoos are notoriously difficult to perfect. Sherlock assumes that basic fact of tattooing translates to graffiti, and that it will require a certain level of skill to achieve straight lines by the unreliable means of a spray can. He did enjoy a brief interest in calligraphy as a child, which has been useful for tattooing on the rare occasions where he adds lettering. Usually, he refuses to. Sherlock cannot abide the sentimentality of it. 

The only lettering Sherlock has on his own body is next to an old scar on his ankle. He tattooed it after a night spent on a bench outside Regent’s Park and being awoken by the enthusiastic barking of a Red Setter. Her wet nose bumped his cheek, and Sherlock went home and tattooed it there, freehand. _Redbeard._

“Soo Lin, you were the winner of the pin-up elimination challenge. That means that you can assign the teams.” 

She steps forward. Her Medusa pin-up was excellent. If the challenges were purely judged on ability to work within the assigned style however, John should have won. Twice, already – he could have won the Gypsy head elimination challenge as well. The problem is that John’s designs are technically correct, but artistically safe. He only attempts what he is certain he will be able to finish in the appointed time, while the judges are inclined towards rewarding creativity and risk-taking. 

“Bainbridge and John,” Soo Lin dictates. 

Interesting. Like Sherlock, Soo Lin must have overheard Bainbridge telling Raz that he has never attempted graffiti before. 

John, for his part, seems pleased enough to be working with Bainbridge. Of course, they share a military history. John is probably more than happy to be around a young soldier like Bainbridge again who will call him ‘sir’ and look at him with adoring eyes. 

“Sherlock and Molly.” 

Molly smiles as she walks to his side. “Hi!”

She is a talented artist, but Sherlock dislikes her tendency to think of him as a friend. She sat down next to him at the table for dinner along with all the other women, while Sherlock had been hoping to spend the meal alone with John. The resulting evening had been… uncomfortable. 

“And I will work with Janine,” Soo Lin concludes. 

“All right!” Janine smiles.

Unlike Bainbridge, Janine does have experience in graffiti, and Soo Lin seems to be prepared to deal with Janine’s competitive streak in order to win, as she well should. 

Soo Lin throws him a small smile when she notices Sherlock considering her, and Sherlock nods back. Yes, she is playing the game well. 

“You have two hours to do this,” Mike instructs. “And your time starts… now!” 

Sherlock follows Molly to the blank wall closest to them. There is a crate with various spray cans set there, as well as disposable respirators and boiler suits to protect their clothing. 

“Do you already know what you want to do?” Molly asks. “I mean, do you, ah, conceptualise your work first? Or do you just settle on a design while you’re already working?” She seems to be somewhat nervous.

Sherlock admits, “I do not have any relevant experience in graffiti design.” 

“…Oh!” Molly seems stunned for a moment. “Okay, well…” She finds a piece of chalk in the crate. “I took a workshop once.” She starts outlining the lettering on the wall. “We can do bubble letters, maybe?” 

John and Bainbridge are already collecting spray cans, as well as laughing jovially. 

Janine is pulling her hair back with the aid of a red bandana wrapped around her head. Her voice carries, and Sherlock can hear her say to Soo Lin, “…blockbuster style invented by Blade and Comet.” 

“It was just the once,” Molly continues to speak while she sketches out the letters. “I’m not good or anything. It’s just that my, er, boyfriend was an artist too, and he thought it’d be fun.” She looks back at him. 

Sherlock collects a marker and sets to work on marking the shade lines on top of the faint outline Molly drew. 

In the distance, John laughs again. 

Sherlock abruptly longs for John and their teamwork. Welding the DNA strand was sweaty, uncomfortable work, but he enjoyed the process of it. The way they cooperated to make something grander than he could have accomplished on his own felt unexpectedly fulfilling. 

He collects a respirator and instructs, “We should experiment with various spray patterns on paper before committing to the wall.” 

“You’re right, that’s a good idea.” Molly readily selects a red spray can. 

As ever, Sherlock dislikes having to agree on every detail. Molly’s general presence already deeply annoys him. So do the loud clicks of shaking the cans, the rush of the spray, and the thin scent of paint that carries through the tight mask. Sherlock fantasises about pulling the respirator off, throwing it to the ground, and walking out of the space never to return. 

In his mind, John walks after him every single time. 

Of course in reality John might briefly notice the loss of Sherlock, but then he would move on in the competition. John does not feel this faint thrum between them, this electric charge in the air whenever they interact. He cannot. 

Sherlock focuses on the challenge. He experiments with a variety of caps for the spray cans – there are small caps as well as those that spray a large pattern. According to Janine’s loud comments, these are flare tips and thin tips. Sherlock attempts to perfect a straight line, and then to fill up the letters. 

In a moment of inspiration, he tells Molly to stand aside, sprays some paint onto the bottom of another can, and then flicks it - Pollock style. It adds a pleasingly spontaneous element, he finds. 

Molly copies him with a laugh muffled by her respirator. Even when she accidentally coats her own sleeve and the paint stains her bare skin between the edge of her glove and her boiler suit, she laughs it off. 

They make slow progress. 

John is sat down on a chair with his leg stretched out in front of him, spraying a drawing of a detailed tattoo machine onto the wall. It is a good solution for him needing to remain seated, Sherlock thinks. At least Bainbridge seems to be pulling his weight, seeing how he is dutifully filling in the script above where John is working. They are the only ones to add a drawing to the lettering. 

Lettering is an important skill for tattooing, at least. Every tattoo artist knows that if a design does not have the exact line thickness to space ratio, it can cheapen an otherwise flawless tattoo. But other than that fact, Sherlock can find very little reason why he is doing this. 

As the time ticks down, he develops a whining headache from the fumes. 

Soo Lin comes over, and she and Molly laugh together about something or other. 

The judges appear in the hangar like a flock of vultures. Once again, they are ready to tell the contestants what they have done wrong in performing a skill that most of them have never even attempted before today. A tattoo artist is a specialist; Sherlock’s precision is in his designs and his eye for detail, not in spraying paint onto a wall like a teenage hoodie.

Jim is wearing a blue plaid suit today. It is from the fall collection again. Sherlock cannot help but notice him, even though he would rather not. 

“Time to finish…” Mike gives them a moment, then says, “Everyone, put your spray cans down!” 

Underneath the suit, Jim is slim - almost deceptively frail looking. But he has strength in his arms, Sherlock remembers that. Jim was capable of holding him down, once. 

Jim either feels his gaze or expects it, because he turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. 

Sherlock looks away and focuses on stepping out of the boiler suit. 

John and Bainbridge’s wall is considered first by the judges. It was likely John’s design, Sherlock believes. There is a classic old-school quality to the lettering and the drawing of the tattoo machine at the bottom. 

“It’s a classic,” Jim mirrors Sherlock’s thoughts. 

“You designed it like a tattoo artist would. It’s a logo; it could fit in anywhere. Could be on a wall, or a train, or a t-shirt,” Mike notes with a tone of approval. 

“Well done,” Irene adds. 

John nods seriously. Bainbridge smiles at them. “Thanks!” 

It was never mentioned that they were meant to design a logo of any kind. But then the rules seem to be as subjective as the judges themselves at times. Sherlock does not expect to win today, nor at any flash challenge. What he needs is a true measure of his worth as a tattoo artist, not this. 

Mike moves towards Soo Lin and Janine’s wall and notes, “Good lines in this one.” 

“Professional graffiti style lettering.” Jim leans close to the wall and traces his finger over the freshly done paint. “Not a line out of place.” 

Irene tells Janine, “Obviously, you have the graffiti hand out of the bunch. Crisp, clean outlines. A veteran.” 

“Thank you.” Janine glows.

Sherlock and Molly are last to be critiqued. “I think out of all of them, this for me was the hardest to read,” Mike says. 

“You went a different direction than I would have picked for you two,” Irene comments. 

“It’s _retro_.” Jim seems amused. “Like you designed it in the eighties.”

Molly looks down with a dull flush to her cheeks. She whispers, “I’m sorry,” while the judges turn away. 

“We were likely to lose,” Sherlock replies. He does not blame her for this. “Focus on the next challenge and how to best utilise your talents there.” 

“Yes.” Molly looks up and smiles briefly. “That’s... yes. What do you think it’ll be, the challenge?” 

“Another specific style.” Sherlock has given it some thought. “We have now tattooed each of the judges’ specialities, so perhaps lettering, but that seems overly simple. Judging by the limited colour palette this morning I would suspect either black and grey, or dot work.” 

She nods. 

The judges confer, and then announce, “The winners of the flash challenge are… Bainbridge and John!”

Janine mouths, “What?” to Soo Lin.

“Right!” John smiles at Bainbridge, then looks over Bainbridge’s shoulder at Sherlock, still smiling. 

Sherlock provides a nod back. John did well. He deserves a win, even if it is only this. 

 

-

 

On the return to the studio, Janine complains loudly, “We had the best technique. The best line work, too, they admitted it. It’s just because something _looks_ more original that they ignore someone who actually knows what they’re doing!” 

“ _We_ won though,” Bainbridge argues with a smile. “Just admit it, Janine. We were better!” 

Sherlock ignores them. These challenges annoy him more than anything else. He is ready to work on his own again, and as far away as possible from any of them. 

Raindrops roll over the windows. 

When they exit the vehicle, Sherlock briefly keeps pace right behind John to ascertain his limp and his level of discomfort. Despite the clear pain he feels, John seems to be satisfied. He even turns around to tell him, “Told you one of us would win.” John hurries to get out of the rain. “I’m getting that story tonight!” 

Sherlock stays behind.

He finds an awning and starts chain-smoking while watching the rain fall down. 

He takes the chance to empty his mind from the flurry of impressions that this morning has left. Sherlock enjoys the quiet, he always has. He can hear the rain hit the awning in a soft tapping.

That is, until John walks up to him, balancing a tray in one hand while leaning heavily on his cane. 

“John?” He should be inside, resting his leg. 

“Lunch.” John hands him the tray, looks down for a place to sit, then lowers himself onto the kerb as if that is an at all normal thing to do. 

John smiles brightly, and Sherlock wants to shake him and tell him that no reasonable human being _enjoys_ being around him. He says, with some vitriol, “You should eat inside. Make _friends_.” 

“I’m fine here.” John accepts it with his habitual calm. “Come on, sit. You too afraid to dirty those posh trousers?” 

Sherlock looks down at his trousers. They are not particularly posh, as John seems to think. 

“You fancy Brie or Wensleydale?” John places the tray between them, and he opens a wrapped sandwich. He starts to eat quickly, as if he is truly hungry.

Sherlock sits down on the cold pavement and picks at his sandwich. 

He dislikes this, Sherlock tells himself. It’s not what he does, he barely acknowledges other tattoo artists usually. He does not _appreciate_ colleagues. He does not voluntarily converse with people outside of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and occasionally Mycroft - Sherlock does not enjoy the human pretence of caring. And in the context of the competition they are already clear allies, so John has no further reason to be here. 

He says, “We already have an alliance. You are wasting your breath talking to me further. You should focus on the others and win their favour.” 

“Hm.” John asks, while eating, “Why’d you get me that coffee then, this morning?” He glances at him. “That not wasting your breath?” 

“I explained myself, caffeine is a useful tool.” Sherlock feels indignant. “You were lamenting your lack of decent coffee to Molly yesterday so I fixed…” 

“Ha!” John points at him while chewing. 

“What?” 

“Cause I wanted a good cuppa, you went outside the hotel to god knows where to get me some. But I’m not allowed to _bring over a tray?"_

“You have already taxed your leg with this morning’s challenge.” Sherlock sinks to what he assumes will succeed in angering John. “If you continue to sit here on the ground you will be in even more pain for no logical reason whatsoever.”

John takes a sip of his bottle of water and says, “Like it better out here.” 

But why? Sherlock feels astonished. He remains silent. 

After a moment, John says, “You’re right about the leg, though. It’s bloody awful when it rains. When we’re done, promise you’re gonna pull me up from here?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock glances at John. He doubts that John asks for help lightly, so he treats it as the serious demand that it is. “I will. John.” 

“Right, then.” John grins into his sandwich. “Good to know you wouldn’t leave me sitting on my arse.” 

 

-

 

Sherlock does indeed help John up from the kerb with a quick pull of both his hands. They return the tray and line up on the tall chairs, waiting to hear the challenge.

It is only Irene and Mike who appear to instruct them on the next elimination tattoo, but Sherlock can see a brief movement from the side corridor of the studio. Likely Jim is waiting there, waiting to reveal some element of the challenge.

Mike smiles proudly when he says, “Today’s tattoo is going to require your skills of observation, and your ability to tattoo using only dark and light.” 

Black and grey work then - Sherlock predicted correctly. He shares a look with Molly, who smiles. 

“This elimination challenge will be a real test for the artist in you,” Irene adds mysteriously. 

“I brought some presents!” Jim appears from the side corridor and leads out a line of animal trainers. The first has an adult boa constrictor lying over her shoulders. The second has a snowy owl perched on his extended arm, and the last trainer carries a peregrine falcon on hers. 

“The rules are strict,” Irene instructs. “You cannot use colour, these tattoos need to be done in black and grey. And you are showing this specific animal.”

“You can use references,” Mike adds. “But the challenge is to draw these exact animals, and you will be judged on precision.” He smiles. “Go on.”

 _Wonderful._ Sherlock slides off his chair and approaches the animal trainers. 

Molly immediately gravitates towards the one with the snake. “Can I?” She reaches out her hand. The trainer nods, and Molly touches the snake and pets it like she would a cat. “Oh, he’s so cute!” 

Bainbridge makes a choked sound. “ _Nope._ Not touching that. Jesus.” 

“I don’t believe they are poisonous?” Soo Lin offers. She does maintain a safe distance as well. 

The boa constrictor is now lazily curling around Molly’s arm, and she smiles widely. “I have a corn snake at home. Toby, he’s called.”

Janine studies each animal with care. Sherlock agrees that there is more thought needed here than simple affiliation when it comes to choosing an animal. The snake is too slow in its movements. Despite wanting to observe it, Sherlock dismisses it as beginner. The falcon is intriguing. It’s not as commonly tattooed as snakes are, meaning it would be slightly more open to interpretation. Sherlock’s eye settles on the snowy owl, however. She – dark spots in an adult indicate it is a female - is gorgeous. 

“Right up your alley?” John sidles up besides Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock allows John to see his excitement. He only rarely attempts live drawings, but he has observed both biological and botanical samples as inspiration for his work for years. 

“I’ve done lots of eagles, but nothing realistic like that falcon. I think maybe I’ll take the snake?” 

Sherlock agrees. “It will be the most within your skill set of the three.” 

“What do you want?” John lowers his voice. 

Sherlock glances at the owl and its quick, sharp movements. There is a lot to be done with light and dark there. 

“All right.” John grins. He confidently walks up to Bainbridge, and they have a short conversation. 

Sherlock watches them. John is clearly pleased with his flash challenge win and his newfound influence to dictate the challenge. It is useful to have John arguing in his favour, of course. Challenges like these can be manipulated very easily, and one difficult tattoo can be the end of a contestant. 

“Bainbridge and John.” Mike calls them back. “Because you were the winners of the graffiti flash challenge this morning, you can assign which artist is going to tattoo which animal. What have you chosen?” 

“I’ll do the snake,” John says determinately. 

Bainbridge adds, “So will I.” 

“Janine and Molly will tattoo the falcon,” John continues. He smiles briefly. “And the snowy owl is for Sherlock and Soo Lin.” 

Ah. They have chosen to pit him against Soo Lin. As far as Sherlock is aware she is mainly a colour artist, and an Oriental one at that. Judging by yesterday’s Medusa she would have been much better suited to the snake - John was wise not to tattoo against her. 

Janine, of course, has always had difficulty with both realism and movement in her work. Sherlock suspects that Molly will easily out-tattoo her when it comes to the detail in the falcon’s feathers. 

“You have the rest of the day to sketch and meet with your canvasses. And then six hours to tattoo a realistic black and grey animal tomorrow.” 

Mike seems pleased with this challenge, as he well should be. Life drawing is both interesting and artistically valid. 

They have not been able to speak much – Mike has warned him that he cannot acknowledge previous affiliation with the contestants while on camera – but Sherlock has a feeling that Mike had a hand in this challenge. Sherlock nods at him while he collects his sketch pad and various pencils, and Mike smiles back.

Sherlock approaches the owl next. He starts by copying down a detailed print of her feather pattern, as well as captures her eyes and her general presence in a series of quick sketches. 

Soo Lin is kneeling on the other side of the owl and watches her attentively. 

“Fuck, this thing won’t stop moving!” Janine’s voice rises up where she and Molly are both sitting cross-legged on the floor by the peregrine falcon. “How are we meant to do this? Sit still, you bloody bird!” 

John has – seemingly unselfconsciously, Sherlock notes - dragged a chair up from by the table to sit by the boa constrictor. He seems unfazed both by the conversation going on around him and Bainbridge circling the snake warily. 

Bainbridge asks the trainer, “Any way you can get it to show its tongue? You know, do that snake thing?” 

Sherlock sketches on. He enjoys this challenge. The snowy owl is a magnificent animal, and while he could achieve a similar stencil while working with a reference, there is something about observing a live bird in motion that adds authenticity to his work. 

Eventually, when he has done enough sketches to serve as the base for his tattoo, he pulls himself away in order to work with references. It is with some reluctance that he retreats to the large table, though.

John is already seated there. As soon as Sherlock sits down next to him, John companionably leans over and shows him his sketches. “What do you think?” 

Sherlock considers John’s outlines. They are crude. John is not a classically trained artist, and his drawings are based on a detailed schematic of some kind. It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that John has drawn the snake’s skeletal make-up, and only afterwards the texture of the scales over it. Sherlock himself would never work that way - he finds it gives it a certain mechanical quality – but while lacking in artistry, it is remarkable in John’s apparent anatomical knowledge. 

“Passable.” 

Where someone else might be insulted, John laughs it off easily. “Let’s have a look at what you did, then.” 

Sherlock shows John his own work with some reservation. Looking at it now, the delicately drawn feathers and the various studies of the owl’s wet, beady eyes seem somewhat idealised. 

John studies the work for long moment, and Sherlock fights the urge to pull the sketch pad from his hands like a child would, while screaming that he wasn’t finished yet. 

“You’re a proper artist, aren’t you?” John’s eyes are still on the sketches. 

Sherlock swallows. He feels a sudden press on his throat. 

“You went to art school as well?” John is studying the various sketches by carefully trailing his fingers over the paper, as if he is afraid to smudge the page, but yet wants to physically touch the work. 

“Waste of my scientifically inclined mind.” Sherlock parrots Mummy’s opinion. 

John looks at him gently. “You would have been brilliant.” 

Sherlock always knew he would have been. But somehow, hearing it prods at a very old dream. 

“No need to be complimentary, John.” Sherlock gathers up the sketch pad, puts his pencil to the paper and sets to refining his sketches without looking at John any further. He needs to focus on creating a workable stencil, not on John’s misplaced adoration. 

But John’s presence is palpable nonetheless. They are sitting close enough that Sherlock can feel the heat of John’s arm radiate against his own. When either of them moves to take another pencil or to shift the paper, their sides brush together. The sensation is distracting, but Sherlock does not pull away. 

Neither does John, Sherlock notes. 

When the time assigned for observing the animals is over, they are presented with their clients. 

John leaves to interact with his, but Sherlock for a moment only looks at John’s retreating form and considers the warmth between them. 

When his own client wanders over, Sherlock instructs, “Follow me.” It’s a young man, barely out of his teens. Sherlock leads him to his partition of a shop, and says, “I will be tattooing a snowy owl, which body part?” 

“My upper arm.” 

Sherlock frowns. He is thin, it might be impossible to tattoo an owl in its entirety there. “Show me.”

The client sits down onto the tattooing bench, opens his shirt, and shrugs it off to reveal slender arms. 

“No.” Sherlock looks him over. The shape of an owl with its wings closed is oblong, but the tattoo needs to be fully readable from a single perspective, which means that in order to fit onto this arm, it would need to be scaled down by at least thirty percent. 

His legs are likely too thin as well. “I need your chest or back.” Sherlock amends, “Preferably back.” - Six hours of tattooing on bone will be excruciating, and men have a lower pain threshold than women. 

“Um.” The client looks back towards the production team. “They told me I can choose where I get tattooed? I had to tell them where I want it and...”

Sherlock is very aware that this is the type of mistake that sends artists home. If Raz would have convinced his client to get his tattoo anywhere else, he would be still here, and one of the main competitors at that. Sherlock does not intend to repeat his error. He argues, “If you wish to receive a tattoo of a high standard, I require more skin.”

“I don’t...” The client looks at the production team again.

“Turn around,” Sherlock orders. 

He obeys, revealing a small flash tattoo on his lower back above his waistband, done by a poor artist. It’s a definite eyesore, but the fact remains that the back is the best space for this. Sherlock places a piece of paper onto the client’s shoulders and draws a quick circle to measure the space available. He removes the paper and considers the shape. “This will be superior.” 

The client moves off the bench, then lingers for a moment more, so Sherlock tells him, “I will prepare the stencil tonight, and I start immediately tomorrow. Make certain you have eaten well and are rested. Adrenaline lowers blood glucose levels.” 

Sherlock turns away without waiting for a reply. He was considering tattooing the owl sitting on a branch with its wings to its side, but now he knows that it can span the shoulder blades, he can make better use of the space if he were to tattoo an owl in flight. They did not observe this particular owl as such, but Sherlock remembers the judges’ reaction to his Boudica. It’s clear he needs to design an impressive image in order to win this challenge. 

He spends the next hour redrawing his sketches and composing a stencil while John is still in conversation with his own client - dull. By the time the production assistant calls out to let them know they can continue working in the hotel, it is already six pm. 

John manages to lose his client, then walks up to him and says, “Finally! God, I’m starving.” 

Sherlock eyes him while they walk to the exit. John will need time to work on his stencil tonight. But he also requested to hear the Sicilian Mafia symbol case details later as a reward for his win, so does that mean he wishes for Sherlock to join him in the restaurant again?

“My client’s fussy. She didn’t want a snake, I had to tell her it’ll suit her over and over. Yours?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says. 

John’s cane produces a dry thud on the pavement as they walk on. 

When John gives him a look, Sherlock expands, “Male, late teens, pliable.” 

“Right.” John laughs. “That’s like a description on a wanted poster.” 

They walk through the revolving door of the hotel lobby, towards the hotel restaurant. 

“What do you fancy?” John licks his lips in an unconscious gesture of hunger that makes Sherlock’s stomach feel tight as well.

Sherlock is not hungry in the least. But if they must sit in the restaurant, then he supposes sitting there with John might make it bearable. He shrugs. “Nutrients of some kind.”

John’s immediate smile fades when they are accosted by Bainbridge. “Hiya John, we’re all eating together today.” Bainbridge glances at Sherlock as well. “You two coming?”

“Sure, yeah.” John replies for both of them. 

They join the large table just in time to hear Janine greet Bainbridge with, “ _Tere tatto’n mein aag lagay._ ” 

Bainbridge laughs. “Same to you, mate.” 

“What does that mean?” Molly asks. 

“May your balls catch on fire!” Janine smiles sunnily. 

“She got the shop a calendar with funny swearwords for Christmas,” Bainbridge explains. “We’ve been practicing every day.” 

“In Mandarin,” Soo Lin replies candidly, “there is _Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài._ ” 

“Ooh, what’s that?” Janine seems interested. 

Soo Lin says calmly, “Fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation.” 

They all burst out into laughter. 

Sherlock tunes out the sounds of them trying to repeat the phrases with varying success. Their general attitude is not at all conductive to a quiet conversation with John, and he regrets sitting down here.

“Gaelic has...” Janine takes a deep breath and chants, “ _Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire de chnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn._ ” She grins. “It means ‘May the devil make a ladder of your backbone while picking apples in the garden of Hell.’”

“That’s amazing!” Molly laughs. 

“I like that,” Soo Lin says. 

“You okay?” John glances at him. 

“The case would be easier to relay without the distraction of other diners,” Sherlock points out. He could tell it here, but it would be difficult. 

“Yeah.” John looks around. “You wanna come to mine after?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock says it easily. 

John is drawn into a conversation about military swearing with Bainbridge when Janine asks, “What’s the worst you’ve heard in the army, then?” 

Sherlock eats his food and attempts not to feel irritated beyond belief at the conversation around him. They all act like children. 

To his mild surprise, John does not forget what he had offered, because as soon as he is finished eating, John stands and mumbles a quick goodbye to the other artists. Sherlock follows him out with some relief. 

“Not much for casual dinner conversation, are you?” John asks. 

“ _No._ ” Sherlock doesn’t attempt to disguise his frustration. 

John laughs. 

When they enter the lift, Sherlock furtively examines the reflection of John in the mirror behind him. The slant of John’s shoulders and his dishwater blond hair already seem deeply familiar to him. So do John’s eyes, when his gaze is drawn to them. 

John exits the lift, then uses his key card to enter his room. 

It feels heady, somehow, to follow him inside. 

John’s room is an exact copy of Sherlock’s, but neater by far. Sherlock’s room has heaps of his drawing books, his laptop, and his clothing strewn around despite housekeeping’s best efforts. This room does not have a single visible possession of John’s lying around, even though John likely did not expect to invite him up here. 

Sherlock sits down onto the single chair by the bed and commences the story even before John sits down. “It started with a postcard.”

“...Hm?” John sits on the edge of the bed. “Right, the case.” 

“Sent anonymously to both of the victims, as well as at least five others in their immediate family, with no information except a black hand printed onto it.” 

Sherlock distantly longs for a cigarette to occupy his hands. Or drugs, of course. Always drugs. 

“Lestrade only called me in after the second murder. If he would have had the sense to do so earlier, I could have prevented it.”

John listens attentively. “So the black hand was a symbol of some kind?”

“The Black Hand, or _La Mano Negra_ , was a type of extortion commonly practised by the Sicilian Mafia in the United States among immigrant families in the early nineteen hundreds.” Sherlock eyes John. “The custom appeared to have died out after the mid nineteen twenties.” 

“So someone used the symbol. To mean... what?”

Sherlock jumps up and moves towards the window. He tilts the window open the small amount it will go and finds a cigarette, then belatedly asks, “Problem?” 

It’s against hotel rules, of course. A fifty pound fine, likely. 

“Sure,” John says. 

Sherlock lights the cigarette. It’s his last one.

In the moment of silence following, he can deduce the density of the traffic outside by the sound of the cars on the nearby road. At night, from his own room, he counts them and memorises the frequency. 

“ _You have wronged me._ ” Sherlock glances back to see John sitting on the bed. “That was the meaning.” 

“Wronged him how?” John sounds distant, behind his back. 

Sherlock wishes he could turn around and... No. He doesn’t feel like stringing this out any further. “Ancestry.com.” 

It took him three days and nights without sleep to make the connection. Sicilian ancestry. Anger. Easy, really. If he would have had some cocaine it would have been solved in a day. 

Sherlock looks back at John. “The killer was given up for adoption at birth. He located his relatives through a DNA test on the website. Italian, apparently.” It had been boring as soon as he knew the answer. Still, it was his first case that didn’t involve a tattoo as such. 

John stands and joins him by the window. “Great find, that. They’re lucky to have you.” 

Cars pass by, among them a bus as well - double-decker, judging by the sound. 

“Got a spare?” John nods at his cigarette. 

Sherlock tilts the pack towards him to show it is empty. He did not bring enough, he was on the verge of quitting - again - before this. 

“Well…” John reaches out and plucks the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock frowns at him, but John’s eyes shine with mischief when he says, “They’re not good for you anyway.” 

He raises the cigarette to his lips and has a draw. 

Watching John’s lips settle where his own had only just been, Sherlock can feel a pull of desire. _This is more than subtle flirtation, John._ It’s dangerous, this. Sherlock takes a breath. “Aren’t they?”

“No.” John hands the cigarette back, hand brushing Sherlock’s in a slow and entirely deliberate movement. Heat shoots through Sherlock’s spine at the touch. _John’s wife would never know._ John’s eyes seem to say the same thing. 

Sherlock turns away. “I have work to do.” 

When John inhales to protest, Sherlock adds, “So do you. You cannot play it safe any longer, John.”

“…I didn’t think I was.” John’s lips play around a smile. 

Sherlock swallows away any and all emotion. “You might want to focus on the competition. At this point you are nothing more than a mediocre artist.” He opens the door. “Do push yourself.” 

The last thing he sees is John’s taken aback expression. 

 

-

 

Sherlock moves through the hallway and closes the door of his own hotel room behind him with a sense of finality. 

He insulted John Watson into despising him.

It was time. 

Sherlock wasn’t lying; he does have work to focus on. He looks back through his drawings, but not a single one catches his eye for completion. Instead his mind prods at the memory of what he said to John again and again like a bruise. He was cruel, he is aware. Unnecessarily so. 

All Sherlock can hear is John’s voice, charming him today, complimenting him. And then his own. _“Nothing more than a mediocre artist.”_

On top of that, the sensations of feeling John so near today seem to repeat themselves like waves. The way John carried that tray and sat with him, acting as if it wasn’t a kindness that Sherlock has little context for. The careful trace of John’s fingers over Sherlock’s work today, his clear appreciation. How John took that cigarette and brought it to his lips, lust heavy in his eyes. 

Sherlock feels a searing desire for something, _anything_ to dull the crawling sensation inside of his chest. He sets to finishing his stencil, but he cannot focus much. He feels both weary and erratically awake at the same time. 

It takes hours before he knows what he would want to say, if he had the chance. _I want this too, John._

No. 

Sentiment has never been of any use. 

 

-

 

In the morning, Sherlock takes the lift down to see John sitting on his usual sofa. He has notable bags under his eyes, which is indicating a lot for someone with a history of both medical school and the army. John looks up, ready to speak, so Sherlock quickly comments, “You look terrible.” 

“Well, I was up half of the night, wasn’t I?” John stands up with a quickly hidden wince of pain. “Bloody _drawing!”_

Sherlock watches him. John seems justifiably angry about what he said to him, so Sherlock offers, “Feel free to hit me.” 

“What?” John seems shocked. 

“I would suggest the stomach, if you feel the need.” Sherlock touches his face. “Can’t have bruises on camera.”

John’s mouth pulls. He breathes out and grimaces. “You cock.” 

“...I am a sociopath, by some definitions.” Sherlock risks a smile. John seems to find it somewhat amusing, so Sherlock rapidly continues, “I have been told I lack a heart. And a brain mouth filter.”

“I’ve noticed.” John grumbles, but he is laughing at the same time. He seems to know it for the apology it is. 

“I _am_ sorry, John.” Sherlock says it to make certain. 

“Yeah, well.” A brief flicker of sadness glances over John’s eyes. “Can’t have it all.” 

_No, we cannot._ Sherlock remains silent.

John clears his throat and smiles. “Let’s go tattoo, yeah?” 

Sherlock follows him out.

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

John’s apparent sadness lingers on in his mind. Sherlock wants to consider it and its meaning, but he cannot allow himself the distraction. Not now. 

They sit on the high chairs to hear the judges introduce today’s challenge.

“Good morning contestants. You have six hours to tattoo a black and grey animal, and your time starts... now!”

Sherlock moves off his chair and motions his client closer. He has a well prepared stencil and a detailed drawing, as well as countless references. If he approaches this rationally, he has every chance of winning today. 

“Mr. Holmes.” The client throws an anxious look at the production assistant behind him and says, “I don’t want a back piece. I want to be tattooed on my arm.” 

Sherlock is supposed to start working right now. He did not prepare for any delay, nor does he wish to indulge the client, not when he is right. He says, sensibly, “Your arm is unsuitable for this design.” 

“He is allowed to choose where he wants to be tattooed.” The assistant comes forward. “If you don’t want to work with him, we can call an alternate,” she offers. “But it will take a while for one to arrive. An hour, I’d say.” 

John throws him a concerned look from where he is placing his own stencil onto his client’s back. This is _not good_.

The cameras are pointed at Sherlock’s face. Likely this was at least partially set in scene for the added drama factor. They wanted to provoke him into a reaction. They can remain disappointed, however - Sherlock is a professional. And he has watched too many of these shows not to be aware of their techniques. 

Sherlock glances over at his sketches. He still has the original outline he had in mind, but he never refined it. Even if he were to do so right now, the design would require six straight hours of tattooing, which he will not have. 

He decides and looks back at the client. “I need to see the area again, then draw up a different stencil that suits the desired body part.” 

“Yes, okay.” The client agrees. 

Instead of paying attention to the cameras, or the camera operator who whispers, “How does that make you feel, Sherlock?” Sherlock considers the client’s thin upper arm. 

He cannot tattoo a detailed full-body owl on such a small and curved space. So if not a full-body owl, then what? Simply the head will look bizarre when tattooed on its own. Sherlock needs to both centre it, and somehow connect it to the curve of the body. A frame, perhaps. Art Nouveau inspired, fine line work? Sherlock locates his meticulous sketch of the owl’s eyes. _There._ He can tattoo those in detail, and centre them by means of an intricate frame. Sherlock is capable of free handing a frame; all he needs is a stencil for the owl. 

He bends over his sketchbook and draws. 

Underneath his focus, Sherlock’s mind circles back to John and – easier, much easier - _drugs_. Sherlock always was able to enhance his performance with chemicals; this competition would not be any different. If he had cocaine, he would be able to complete this drawing quicker. It would speed up his mind and hands and, more importantly, make him forget the sensation of John sitting next to him, the brush of his side somehow warming his entire body. 

Sherlock prepares a stencil for the main outline. He can improvise the rest while he works. 

He finishes it as fast as he can, motions the client over, applies the stencil to his upper arm, and commences the tattoo – he checks – forty-three minutes behind schedule. 

He will use the single needle technique invented by Jack Rudy to create the finest possible lines. It’s precise, and it affords him the greatest detail in the owl sketch. It is also incredibly slow. John would outline this with a triple-coiled machine, Sherlock knows. John would speed through this with a steady hand. John would make this clean, not curved. _John would take him to bed, if he wanted._

Sherlock works with precision and tries not to feel the pressure. If not cocaine, he would appreciate some amphetamines right now. Methamphetamine preferably, but he could be flexible. 

Sherlock glances at his own forearm. His skin is busily tattooed, but underneath, the scarring still stands out. 

He has done this before. Improvised Art Nouveau linework. 

After a particularly bad overdose, Mycroft tried to ply him into sobriety with a variety of offers. Money, a job after rehab - the usual. But this time, Sherlock proposed a bet. A year of complete accountability, surprise blood and urine tests, voluntary hair samples, and in return... 

Mycroft – with a sour face – laid down on his tattoo bench. 

It was a victory, of some sort. 

Sherlock cannot live up to what others want and Mycroft was always the symbol of that. _You could have been useful in the secret service, Sherlock. Drawing, truly?_ So when he had Mycroft’s skin in front of him – shaking slightly, how ridiculously dull, a phobia of needles - Sherlock free handed linework onto his skin without any restraint at all. 

For hours, Sherlock tattooed fine lines feathering over Mycroft’s back, some over his sides, onto his shoulders, accentuating some lines, intersecting others. Decorative Art Nouveau. 

Mycroft still has the back piece today. Sherlock doesn’t know why he didn’t simply have it lasered afterwards. Sentiment, maybe. Or glib satisfaction. Does Mycroft congratulate himself daily for Sherlock’s most recent sober streak? Likely. 

He’s wrong, of course. Sherlock was always a junkie, and he always will be. Even more so when sober. 

“...a break, please?” The client twists his arm away from the needle without waiting for his reply. Sherlock checks the clock. Over three hours gone. He is tattooing slowly today, too slow. 

In spite of that, he replies, “Five minutes.” 

The client disappears, and Sherlock removes his gloves and stands on uneven legs – he must have forgotten to move them – and walks towards John’s shop.

John looks up with concern. “You doing all right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Fine.” 

“I’m on schedule, I think. A lot of work, but we’ll get there.” John looks back at his tattooing; he is working on the snake’s scales. The tattoo is much more lifelike in its design than the last iteration of the stencil Sherlock saw. 

Sherlock says, “It appears that your style has improved dramatically, John.” 

“Yeah?” John’s mouth pulls. “Wonder how that happened.”

His wry joking calms something in Sherlock, and he would like to stay right here with John all day, instead of return to his own work. But Sherlock cannot linger. _The things I need, John. They’re impossible._

John says, “Stop congratulating yourself and go torture that client some more.” 

“Is that an order?” Sherlock quips.

He sees John’s raised eyebrow before he retreats, and he feels a flash of heat despite everything. Sherlock has rarely enjoyed conversing like this. Even if it is in-between producing a somewhat disastrous tattoo. 

The client returns, and Sherlock looks at his work with new eyes. The composition could be better. The owl’s eyes are striking, but he is working with what he knows he can perfect quickly, and it shows. 

He starts on the frame. 

Time glides through his hands. The client doesn’t sit well, he jerks away from the needle when it hurts and moves around more than Sherlock would want him to. He’s annoyed by it - it breaks his focus. 

To make it even worse, his mind continually reminds him that he could go out and score after this if he’d want to. If not cocaine, then heroin. He could take it to his room, ignore John, and get lost in the bliss of a simple high tonight. 

Sherlock tattoos on. The skin is a swollen mess by now, with blood pearling up over the ink. When he works over the bone the pain makes his client breathe long, shivering breaths. He is close to giving in, but Sherlock has no time for this. 

“Three, two, one... time is up, no more ink!” Mike announces the end of the challenge too soon. 

Sherlock stops his machine. That was it.

He looks at what he has done. [The owl](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgMnqC6l7M1/?taken-by=j.m.mee) appears red and uneven in places because of the burst blood vessels underneath, but the lines are symmetrical, at least. The design stands out, and the framing helped to centre it. 

Sherlock finishes rubbing the tattoo off before allowing the cameras to film it. His shoulders feel stiff. 

John wanders over slowly to tell him, “I got the drawing down right.” He is leaning heavily on his cane. “Not sure I beat Molly, though. She’s really done it today.” 

Sherlock has not had time to look at her work. Or at any of them. 

“All right?” John eyes him. 

“Fine.” Sherlock stands and turns towards the exit. His fingers twitch for a cigarette. His only relief, and he neglected to foresee the need to stock up before he came here. He’s been naive, believing he was all right. Believing he could remain clean. 

John follows him out. They pause by the door and stand there, feeling the blast of cool air. It is going dark outside, aided by thick and foreboding rainclouds.

“Another one down, yeah.” John seems tired. Still, he stands close. Uncompromising. John defies… everything. Everyone.

Sherlock watches John from the corner of his eyes. Despite his fatigue, John seems lit up like this. Battle weary, but strong. He is made for moments of action, John, as well as the quiet after. 

Sherlock is not entirely certain what to say to him, but then John does not appear to expect him to speak. 

They are called back inside by an assistant only minutes later. Sherlock feels reluctant to go and sit through the judging. He likely didn’t win. Perhaps John did. 

Soo Lin nods at them while they both take their assigned seats. 

“There you two are!” Molly appears as jarringly cheerful as ever. 

“Hiya John, nice work on that snake,” Bainbridge says. 

Janine simply eyes him calculatingly. She’d be glad if he were to leave, Sherlock thinks. One step closer to winning. It would make her day. 

The judges walk into the studio. Jim is whistling loudly, and for a bright moment Sherlock fantasises about wrapping his hands around Jim’s pale neck to quiet him. 

“Hello everyone!” Irene smiles at them all. 

“John, you were one of the winners of the graffiti flash challenge, so we start with you,” Mike says. 

[John’s snake tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgHFB41F3pk/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown on the screen. It is excellent work. He managed to both keep the structure and the detail of the snake, as well as add a liveliness to it that was absent in his original outline. Sherlock couldn’t have done this, he is aware. He never would have used the same linework or the same technical application. John is finally showing the calibre of artist he could be, if he were to have the courage to stand out. 

“I really like this.” Mike seems proud of his former pupil. “The way you built this snake... Great.” 

“A lot of technical application in here that came out really well. A lot of blending, good detail, I think it’s a wonderful job,” Irene adds. “You’re really taking risks here, John, and it shows.” 

John gives them a pleased nod. This might be it for him. John might have won, Sherlock thinks.

“Bainbridge, you were the second winner of the flash challenge. Let’s see how you did.” 

As soon as the image of [Bainbridge’s snake tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bf9CX-ghM-8/?taken-by=j.m.mee) appears, it becomes obvious that Bainbridge never should have tried to match himself with John. 

“You were meant to draw from life, to show that you can draw. This does not convince me of that,” Irene says scathingly. “Furthermore, it is entirely the wrong shape for a legible tattoo.” 

“It’s patchy. Too heavy in spots, shaky in others. Not good.” Jim sounds bored by the quality of the work. 

“Yeah.” Bainbridge coughs. At least he knows it isn’t his best. 

Mike shows the next tattoo on the screen. “Janine, you are up.”

[Janine’s falcon](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfwIFqYBud6/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is a sheer assault to the eyes.

“This doesn’t look like the falcon that came in.” Irene appears as unimpressed as Sherlock feels. “Look at the top line of the head, look how it goes across all the way to the body. See that hard line you put in? You just took that bird’s head and you broke it there, so it’s got a snapped spine. It’s completely anatomically impossible.” 

“The shading’s improved slightly,” Mike points out. 

“Does that matter when the bird’s _dead?"_ Jim grins. 

Janine takes a breath to defend herself, but Mike diverts quickly, “Molly! Let’s look at your work.” 

[Molly’s falcon tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bf1AiBbhgyL/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown. Sherlock predicted that Molly would succeed in capturing the feathers’ softness, and she did. The greys in her work are blended gently, almost dreamily. The bird’s feathers appear as if they could be ruffled. 

“The drawing itself and the detail, you were able to capture the essence of the animal. It doesn’t have a flat look, it has a 3D texture, that idea that if I run my finger across it I can feel it. _That’s_ the challenge.” Mike seems convinced. 

“Really beautiful work, Molly.” Irene smiles. 

Sherlock’s own tattoo is shown next. Seeing it like this, the owl’s eyes appear sterner than he intended. The whole tattoo feels forced. 

“It’s not what we asked for,” Mike says. To his credit, he sounds disappointed by that fact. He turns to him, “Sherlock, this is meticulous work, but it’s not what we wanted.” 

Jim shrugs. “Ingenious solution to a compositional problem. I don’t see the issue.”

“It was the nature of the challenge that it was meant to be only about the animal,” Mike says. “Not a frame.” 

They don’t say more, but Sherlock is certain they won’t award him the win. He does not deserve it for this. 

“Soo Lin, let’s see your snowy owl,” Irene prompts. 

[Soo Lin’s rendition of the owl](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgB5aTlhkO6/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown. She, like Sherlock originally intended to do, tattooed the owl sitting on a branch. Her technique is harsh; Soo Lin is clearly used to shading heavier than is called for in black and grey work. She did attempt to put in the softness required, but only in certain places, making the total appear uneven. Although Sherlock can see an Oriental influence in there, it is reminding him of Oriental ink drawings. She is a good artist, in her own way. 

Jim shakes his head. “Not good.” 

“If you were able to pull the entire owl off as clean as you were able to pull off those little details in the face, it would have looked a million times better,” Irene says. “It’s too harsh.”

“You didn’t have the technique down,” Mike soothes. 

Soo Lin accepts the critique. “I am aware. Thank you.” 

“Time to determine who had the best tattoo of the day.” Mike turns towards Jim and Irene. “What do you think?” 

“I think it’s between Molly and John. John’s work is solid and creative. And Molly’s is just beautiful.” Irene seems convinced of her answer. “My vote is for Molly.” 

Jim grins. “ _My_ vote is for Sherlock.”

No. He cannot do this. Sherlock digs his nails into the palm of his hand. This work does not deserve the credit. 

Mike takes Jim’s answer in stride, then says, sensibly, “The judges have decided, the best tattoo of the day goes to… Molly!” 

“Oh!” Molly manages to appear surprised. “Thank you. So much.” 

“And the worst tattoo of the day was….”

Sherlock is not entirely certain whether they will send Janine home for the broken falcon, or Bainbridge for lack of effort. 

Mike continues, “...Bainbridge. I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah.” Bainbridge stands. “I just… Snakes, man. Not my thing.” 

“‘Bridge...” Janine pulls him into a hug. “Fuck, I’m gonna miss you!”

John stands as well. He truly tried this time, Sherlock knows. John has come close to winning, but still he was overlooked. 

Bainbridge laughs and draws John in for a hug as well. “John!”

Sherlock turns away from the scene. 

The cameras pull out of the shot, and he is allowed to leave while the other artists further project some sort of emotion at Bainbridge’s elimination. 

Sherlock steps outside, already feeling in his pocket for cigarettes that aren’t there. He can’t go out to buy some. Not tonight. 

He stands there and waits for the sound of John’s cane against the pavement. 

When he hears it, Sherlock turns around. “Dinner?”

John smiles. “Starving.” 

 

\---

 

Day after day in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock watches the episodes and judges what he should have done differently. 

He was overly distracted by John. Uncertain. _Affected._ He should have given in straight away, obviously. He should have slept with John after that first dinner. He should have kissed John and held John every moment he was allowed to – he knows that now. 

If he could go back, he would. 

Instead, Sherlock draws. He sketches John’s nude body while he recalls the sensations of touching him. Sherlock remembers each individual hair on John’s body – arms, legs, stomach, groin - brushing against his sensitive fingertips. _Tasting_ John’s skin, tickling his tongue there and licking a circle, sometimes quickly biting. Sherlock sucked bruises into John’s tattoos, one after the other, while John quietly moaned. 

Sherlock had John, then. For a brief time, John was _his_.

The competition was entirely insignificant, compared to that.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Audacity (John)

 

 

John is staying in a dated Travelodge now. It’s fucking depressing, of course. Middle-aged bloke with nothing but a suitcase, booking a room for a couple of weeks. It pretty much screams ‘just left my wife’. 

He still goes to work at the shop. John schedules his clients as much around Mary’s as he can, then leaves again. It can’t go on like this, obviously. AGRA Tattoo is Mary’s shop, it always was. John’s got no business staying. He just doesn’t have anywhere else yet. 

The advantage of working in the shop is that he has Rosie in his arms every once in a while, though. Holding her makes John feel a throb of guilt. He does miss her. Like he misses Mary. It’s just empty, in his hotel room. Empty and quiet. 

When John mentions custody arrangements to Mary, she says, “Once you’ve got a flat, you better take her half of the time. She’s yours too, John.” 

So that’s what he’ll do, then. John wasn’t planning on having Rosie quite that much. But then it’s not like he was planning on not having her, either. He just didn’t... think. He didn’t even think to look for a flat, yet. Or a shop of his own. 

He gets angry, at times. He knows it’s all his fault. He was the one who found something else, _someone_ else, and thought it was better. So was it? 

John asks himself that question every miserable day. 

 

\---

 

Episode Five

It’s the middle of the night, but John is wide awake with anticipation. He should sleep so he’s rested enough to compete tomorrow, but still he twists and turns on his hotel bed with a strange energy pulsing inside of him. Sherlock told him to practice. Sherlock told him to push himself. Sherlock wants him to be more than _mediocre_ , and he’s right, John needs to go for it and give this competition all he’s got. 

Of course there’s something else he’d like to go for, if given half the chance. 

John sighs and turns over. 

He has imagined it plenty. _Sherlock._ John wants to taste Sherlock’s lips, he wants to pull him off, suck him off – the thought sends a streak of heat through his body. Jesus, he hasn’t had it this bad in years.

Sherlock’s not interested, though. Or not in that way. John tried and he moved away, so yeah, that’s a no. 

It’s hardly a surprise. Sherlock’s gorgeous, while John’s middle aged, disabled - married, too. Not that he’s thinking about _that_ often enough these days. John ignores Mary’s calls because he’s drawing or showering or pulling himself off onto the hotel pillow, feeling frustrated and huge, like he can conquer this thing and he’s doomed all at once. 

John feels alive here, when he’s competing and proving himself against everyone else. It’s not all just Sherlock; this is what he wanted to do. Who he wanted to be. 

When the dim morning light grows brighter, John drags himself out of bed. He showers, and then makes sure he’s downstairs first for once. Sherlock got him coffee, so this time, it’s John’s turn. 

Sherlock was fidgety at dinner last night. Playing with the tablecloth, bumping over a glass of water. He was stopping and starting a story, then frowning at himself. Sherlock stayed around as well, lingering as if he didn’t want to go to bed yet. They sat up talking until after midnight. 

John’s seen addicts craving a hit before. No matter how long it’s been, it’s still there, John guesses. So he called in a favour. 

Mike is already there. He smiles as soon as he sees him walk up. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” John accepts the pack of cigarettes. He looks at Mike and admits, “Didn’t know who else to ask.” 

“It’s no bother. Miranda sends her love.” She’s the smoker in their household, John knows. Mike grins. “Lost a bet to Sherlock then, did you, John?” 

“...Um.” John thought Mike might know the cigarettes weren’t for him, but he hoped it wouldn’t be quite that obvious. “Something like that.” 

“Never bet against him. He’s too clever, Sherlock. Genius, really.” 

“Yeah.” John looks away. 

His eye falls on the old-school tattoo machines that are tattooed onto Mike’s hands, along with his children’s birth dates. John tattooed them himself, years ago. 

Mike takes a breath. “John-“

“-Mr. Stamford?” A production assistant calls out. 

Mike turns towards the crew gathered by the revolving door. “Sorry, I really can’t...” 

“Sure, sure.” John nods. He watches him go. 

They’re not allowed to talk to the judges outside of filming, officially. It does seem like most of them don’t. John hasn’t seen Jim around even once. Irene’s in a room on his floor somewhere, he’s seen her walk past a few times, but that’s about it. 

The lift pings, and John quickly hides the cigarettes in his pocket when Sherlock appears. 

“Good morning, John.” 

John can feel Sherlock’s voice reverberate down to his damn stomach. 

“Here, got you a present.” John takes the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and hands it to him. He tries, “It’ll, what was it? - _Increase our productivity_.” 

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply looks down at the cigarettes in his hand. 

Right, maybe it was a terrible idea. Maybe he was trying to quit. But it seemed like he needed them. 

“Thank...” Sherlock clears his throat. “Thank you. John.” 

John likes his sudden stunned look too much to think of it as enabling. He grins, and they start walking towards the door. “Can I bum one of those, then?” 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

There is only a single row of tall chairs left in the studio now. 

Soo Lin and Janine are already there. Janine is saying, “…one-upped by Semple. But then of course he did manage to get some, fucking twat.” 

“...the Black 1.0 beta?” Soo Lin asks quietly. 

“No, but I got the pink a while back. Not for tattooing - it has a warning against using it as an ink - but I used it for a nude painting of Theresa May.” Janine smirks. “Put her in a wheat field.” 

John’s pretty sure Sherlock and himself carried in a wave of cigarette smoke with them. He doesn’t care, though. It felt great, huddling together against a wall near the studio, lighting up, then protecting their cigarettes from the wind with their hands. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder. 

“Morning!” Molly walks in as well. She has her purple streaked hair twisted up into a tight bun today. She’s in a low-cut dress too, more revealing that John’s ever seen her – it shows off her horror-themed black and grey chest piece. “Exciting, right? I’m always so curious to hear what the challenge will be.” 

“Considering we were asked to gather in the studio, I would assume today’s flash challenge to be drawing or tattooing inspired,” Sherlock replies while they slide onto the chairs. 

“Oh, you’ll be happier than with the graffiti then,” Molly counters. 

“ _Considerably_.” Sherlock makes a face. 

Molly smiles and they all look at a production assistant as she rolls out a table with five painted golden skulls on it. 

Janine asks from the end of the row, “Hey Sherlock, have you ever met Anish Kapoor?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock turns towards John and tells him, “At least two different artists have been found dead underneath his Orbit tower in the Queen Elizabeth Park since its completion in June 2016.” 

“Ooh, did he push ‘em off?” Janine leans forward on her seat in order to chat with them. “He’s a bloody wanker. I bet he did.”

“Being the one who designed the tower does not imply his guilt,” Soo Lin says delicately.

“They were both suicides.” Sherlock tells Janine, “ _Boring_.” 

“Ha!” She throws her hair back and laughs. “You’re right there!”

“Good morning, contestants.” All three judges walk onto the stage, and Mike starts his usual introduction, “You are once again competing for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.” 

There are only five of them now after Bainbridge left. John’s already told him he can come by the shop some day and he’ll show him some old school tricks for shading. 

“For today’s flash challenge we are going back to the basics of tattooing...” 

Sherlock was right then; it is a tattoo challenge today. Good. As fun as all the team stuff has been, colouring in cars and welding statues and spraying graffiti on walls isn’t exactly John’s forte, either. 

“...Illustrative blackwork.” Mike smiles.

Right! That should be easy enough. 

“You are not allowed to use any colour, shading, _or_ a reference,” Irene explains. “Using only lines of different lengths and widths, you must create texture, depth, and contrast in your tattoo. We are looking for a simple image that you can draw without hesitation, something that is your bread and butter as an artist.”

Okay. John quickly thinks through everything he knows by heart – lots of old school images, all the basics really. He’s sure he can do this. 

“One more thing.” Jim takes over. He seems obnoxiously pleased with himself. “As this week’s theme is audacity…” He looks at all of them. “You will be each other’s canvasses.” 

“ _Fuck_.” Janine says it with feeling. 

John agrees. What the hell?! He shares a baffled look with Sherlock. 

Soo Lin whispers, “ _Each other?_ We are tattooing each other’s skin?!” 

“What if someone doesn’t want to?” Molly sounds concerned. 

“As it is a flash challenge, you are allowed to default,” Irene answers. “But we encourage you to take the step.” 

John doesn’t much fancy this. Not that the people who are left aren’t good – God knows he’s got some questionable work, too. But to lie down on that bench while being filmed getting some work done... Plus, he’s barely got any space left. Where is he meant to put this? 

“Each of these golden skulls has a name stuck to the bottom,” Mike explains. “Molly, you were the winner of the live drawing elimination tattoo, so you will be allowed to pick first, with a single advantage: if you do not like who you picked, you are allowed to return the skull and pick again.” 

Molly stands up and walks towards the table. Her hand hovers over the skulls for a moment before she picks one and turns it around. 

“Um...” She looks up. “It says ‘Molly.’ Does that mean that I...?” 

“You can work on yourself,” Mike confirms. “But if you would prefer not to, you can pick another name.” 

That depends on whether she’s got any space left, John thinks. Legs are easiest, or her non-dominant arm. Everything else is going to be near-impossible. 

“I am going to pick someone else.” Molly puts the golden skull back and selects another. She turns it over. “Janine.” 

“All right.” Janine nods. “I’m up for it - you can tattoo me.” 

Molly takes the skull with her to sit down, and Mike prompts, “Janine, that means you are up next.” 

They all know which skull has Molly’s name on it now. John wonders whether Janine’s going to take it and ensure that they get each other, but she decisively reaches out and selects another one. 

She turns the skull over. “Soo Lin.” 

Soo Lin does choose the skull Molly returned. She reads it out, “Molly.” 

John’s starting to feel a tad unpopular here. There are two skulls left, so one of them has to have his name on it, and the other Sherlock’s. They’ll either get each other, or have to work on themselves. 

Mike prompts, “Sherlock, would you like to pick?” 

Sherlock will definitely want to tattoo himself, John thinks. He said he did his own arms, even. Sherlock’s hand doesn’t waver; he quickly picks the skull closest to him, turns it over, and then meets John’s eyes for a fraction of a second before reading it out. “John.” 

Damn. John’s glad, as always he’d love to work with Sherlock, but he hasn’t got a decent spot left for Sherlock to tattoo. 

“John, that means that you will be tattooing Sherlock.”

“Yeah, sure.” John doesn’t mind that, not at all. It’s just his own that’s the problem. He quickly thinks it through - his chest piece ends right by his collar bones, so he’s got space on his neck still. Or on his hands. John glances at them. Wrists, too. 

Mike instructs, “You are given two hours each to both design your tattoos and to execute them. That means that there will be three rounds of tattooing, and you will need to coordinate who works on who first.”

Sherlock announces, “I will tattoo the first two hours.” They slide off the chairs and leave the skulls. “I am accomplished in free handing; all I require is as much time to execute the tattoo as possible. You can design your piece afterwards.” 

That sounds sensible enough, but John has to tell him, “You’re going to have to do either my neck or my hands.” 

“You don’t want to be tattooed that visibly.” Sherlock glances at him.

He’s right. John never planned to get anything done there. Or anywhere that his clothes don’t hide. But maybe now’s the time. Sherlock will make it into something good at least, John knows. Audacity, right? John looks at him and decides on the spot. “You pick. Whatever you can do best.” 

Mike says, “Your time starts... now!”

They hurry to Sherlock’s shop while Sherlock asks quickly, “You have a full back piece, as well as your chest and stomach?”

“Yes. Full arm sleeves and leg sleeves, too.” John wasn’t kidding, there’s nothing else left. 

“The top of your feet?” 

“No, taken.” Those were the last tattoos John had done, actually. Mary tattooed a rose for Rosie, with her date of birth and a rocking horse in neo traditional. The other side is a dandelion for Mary, and their wedding date. 

“Inner thighs or buttocks?” 

John takes a breath that feels a lot like laughter. “No, and I’m not giving you my cock either, so don’t ask.” 

Sherlock grins briefly in reply to his joke, but they have arrived at his shop and he is clearly focused on how to get this done. “Armpits? Back of the knees?” 

Oh, actually… “I’ve got some space behind my knees.” Mike skipped it because the skin was scarring and considering the pain level they agreed it was for the best. “Not easy to tattoo though.”

“I will determine that.” Sherlock is already placing the privacy screen so they’re hidden from the cameras. 

John puts his hands on his trousers and - _needs must_ – lowers them so Sherlock can see what he’s on about. 

“Is there enough space to work with?” John’s not really in the habit of checking out the back of his own legs, he only vaguely remembers what’s even on there. 

“Somewhat.” Sherlock – of course – instantly kneels behind him to inspect his legs. He’ll notice the scarring under there. It’s mostly covered by the bolts and gears of the tattoo Mike did, but not fully. 

John feels rather idiotic, standing here with his trousers around his ankles. 

Luckily Sherlock is still all business. He says, “Lie down onto the table. On your stomach, I need the skin as stretched as possible.” 

“Sure.” John sits, takes his shoes off, and turns onto his stomach as instructed. It’s not exactly how he pictured undressing for Sherlock, is it? He tries to put it out of his mind. This is about a tattoo, and that’s all. 

The tattooing bench is at an angle though, and lying down like this his upper leg muscles are carrying his weight. 

Predictably, his leg starts shaking with pain. John sighs and admits, “I don’t know if I…”

“Yes, clearly.” Sherlock has already seen the problem. He looks around, grabs his coat from where he hung it in a corner and balls it up. “Under your hips.” 

John rolls on top of Sherlock’s coat like he’s about to hump it. He suppresses a laugh. 

“Better?” Sherlock looks at him with a flicker of amusement as well. 

“It is, actually.” John’s legs are curved more naturally now, and the muscle is supported. 

Sherlock hurriedly finds a pair of latex gloves, pours his black ink, and says evenly, “This location will likely be extremely painful.” 

“I know.” John holds his eye. He’s under no illusions here. But can deal with whatever it’ll be. 

Sherlock fires up his machine, then leans over John’s arse and warns, “First line.” 

Even though John’s expecting it, the pain is still a stabbing shock. He can feel every slight tremble of the machine as it rips through his skin, and he breaks out in goose bumps. Christ. 

His adrenaline will kick in though, John knows. A few minutes of aching hell, and his body will take care of it. He might even be able to walk without a cane for a few hours after this. 

Which will be great for tattooing Sherlock. John distracts himself by thinking of that. _Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t tense the damn muscle. Don’t move so he can pull straight lines._ Sherlock’s not the anchor and roses kind, is he? No swallows or eagles, no pin-ups, either. Something more science-y, John thinks. 

It’s only after several minutes of considering what he’s going to do for Sherlock that John realises he has no idea what Sherlock is tattooing on him. All he can feel is lines. A long one, connecting both sides. His left knee has a circle going on. 

Sherlock can do what he wants. Whatever it is, John’s fine with it.

He closes his eyes. John can feel each spot being worked on in excruciating detail. The buzzing needle is producing bright stabs of pain wherever it touches him. He tries to relax into the bench. Into the pain, as well. 

John thinks of how Sherlock took that coat and rolled it up for him without a second thought. Most people pretend they don’t notice John’s limp because it makes them feel ill at ease, but Sherlock would study it if he’d let him, John thinks. Sherlock would see all of his damn flaws and think each one is interesting. 

It’s odd how Sherlock doesn’t notice the way people respond to him. He can pull everyone’s eye in a room without even thinking he’s getting a glance. He can be warm, when he wants to be. Even when he’s not, really. Sherlock’s scathing but real, so real in who he is. Unapologetically. 

John knows what he wants to tattoo. He holds the image in his mind and considers the line work while the time ticks down. Sherlock’s working on small stings of lines now. Details, John assumes. 

“Janine, Sherlock.” Mike’s voice suddenly sounds out in the large space. “Time to finish. Machines down.” 

Sherlock’s needle leaves his skin. John leans up on his elbows and looks back towards him while Sherlock sprays the overly sensitised skin down and rubs it off. “You manage to finish?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hands him his cane, and John shifts to his side, then lowers his legs and sits. He leans on his cane fully for a moment - he’s wary about putting his weight on his leg right away – then stands. 

“Let’s have a look then.” John stands by the mirror and turns so he can see the back of his knees. 

The skin is red and swollen, shiny with lymphocytes, but there are lines... 

John meets Sherlock’s eyes. “London?”

“[An outline of the Thames alongside various landmarks.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg4KPo0hZbI/?taken-by=j.m.mee)” 

“Right.” John swallows. London was it, for him. If he wouldn’t have stayed here and met Mike, he’d have been a goner. He says, “Great. Love it. Thanks,” feeling like an arse that he can’t... say more. 

Mike is already announcing, “One minute until the next round begins.” But John’s waiting until the last go.

They see Molly guide Janine into her shop, while Soo Lin is sitting this one out as well. She’s at the large table. Her ankle is wrapped up, and she elevates it on a chair next to her. 

John covers both of his knees with cling film as well, back to front, and then struggles into his trousers and shoes again. 

Sherlock’s still cleaning up his workspace, so John hobbles over to his own shop to find his drawing materials while his skin protests sharply. He’s making crinkling sounds at every step. Soo Lin smiles at him when she hears him walk up. 

“Hiya.” John sits across from her. 

He knows what he wants to sketch, and how. He wants it to look like an old illustration, like something you’d find in a text book. John thinks Sherlock would appreciate that style. 

Sherlock walks past them and then disappears somewhere – for a smoke maybe, John thinks. He doesn’t have time to join him now, though. He needs to get this done first. 

John’s in the middle of drawing the left atrium when he feels Sherlock lean over his shoulder. He brought in the cold air. 

“...An anatomically correct heart.” Sherlock’s deep voice carries some surprise. 

“Yeah well, you said you didn’t have one.” John looks up. He feels a sting of anxiety now. He can still change it, if Sherlock hates it. “Thought I’d fix that.”

Sherlock is looking at the drawing. He says, slowly, “You’re likely to win, if you can tattoo this.”

Is he? “Only if you want it, though.” God knows there are dozens of other things John could do. 

Sherlock’s eyes linger on his for a moment. “I do.”

“Good.” John coughs. “Good, yeah. I’ll finish the sketch, then.” 

Half a sketch later, a production assistant brings them lunch. John’s about to say that Sherlock better eat something before he gets tattooed himself, but he doesn’t need to - Sherlock assembles a tray for the both of them and brings it over. 

John asks him, “Where is this going, then?” He might need to scale his design down, depending on the location. 

“My upper back.” Sherlock starts eating with measured bites. 

“You don’t have anything yet?” John had half imagined he’d be tucking this tattoo behind Sherlock’s knees, too. Or on his upper leg or something. Not a prime spot. 

“No.” Sherlock doesn’t offer anything more. 

They eat, and then John adds the finishing touches to his design. Soo Lin looks over the table. “It is beautiful, John.” 

She herself is working on the head of an elephant for Molly. It’s detailed as hell, John thinks, and daring too, to do an animal without a reference. “So’s yours.” 

“Thank you.” Soo Lin pours herself some tea, then hands them both a mug as well. 

They can hear the buzzing of Molly tattooing Janine in the distance. 

John’s starting to feel done in now. Part of it is that he’s coming down after being tattooed, but he also didn’t sleep much last night. The hollows of his knees are throbbing hotly. He can feel Sherlock’s presence next to him. Hear the soft scratching of Soo Lin’s pencil. He drinks his cuppa and sketches on idly. Even though it’s mainly finished, he’s adding details for the pleasure of completion. 

He looks up to see Sherlock studying him with a clear, soft expression on his face. John smiles at him. 

It feels like they’re in a bubble, like this. Sherlock eyes him, and something heats John’s chest. _What I’d want with you…_

“Molly? Time to finish. Machine down, please.” 

John sits up straighter and rubs his hands over his face. Time to focus. 

Soo Lin’s elephant is finished. She shows it to Molly when she walks up, fresh from tattooing Janine. “Do you think it is right?” 

Mike warns them, “One minute until the next round starts.” 

They all get up. John’s skin protests when he walks towards his shop, reminding him once again that he’ll be doing this to Sherlock, now. He asks, “You ready?”

“Of course.” Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt, then shrugs it off and puts it on John’s tattooing bench. 

John tries not to stare - no need to make this awkward, is there? But Sherlock has some stunning tattoo work. John has seen glimpses of the beginning of his chest piece, but to see the whole thing is impressive. It’s perfectly symmetrical, with so many thin lines and details intersecting. There are patterns running over Sherlock’s sides, connecting to the lower back. Some over his shoulders, just to the top of his shoulder blades. It’s all the same style.

“You did this yourself?” John asks it quietly. “All of it?”

“Hm. With several mirrors and some flexibility it is possible.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to think it’s odd that he gave himself a world-class bodysuit. It’s impressive as hell. 

John starts assembling his tattoo machine. His old-school coiled machine takes more work that Sherlock’s pneumatic one did, and John can see Sherlock watch his hands. 

“You prefer working with the heavier machines,” Sherlock notes. 

“Yeah, still do.” John knows a pneumatic one can go in the autoclave in one piece so it’s much more user-friendly, but this is how he learned. It’s how it’s meant to be done. 

Sherlock turns so he can reach, and John applies the stencil onto Sherlock’s bare back. It reminds him of The Wizard of Oz, for a moment. _Give the tin man a heart._ He doesn’t make the joke, though. 

Sherlock lies down exactly where he needs to, visibly relaxes, and John quietly warns him, “First line.” 

It’s a joy to tattoo him. John’s body is still faintly buzzing from receiving his own tattoos, and while the back of his knees ache and burn right now, the rest of him stretches and moves better than it ever does. 

Two hours isn’t a lot at all, but Sherlock remains completely still for him and John really gets to step on it. There isn’t a single line in there that out of place, he thinks. 

When Mike says, “Soo Lin, John, time to finish!” John puts his machine aside with something still rushing in his chest. He did it. It’s perfect. Or as close to it as he could make it. 

John carefully wipes off Sherlock’s red and angry skin, then sprays it down. [His anatomical heart.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bgt_G8gBBhv/?taken-by=j.m.mee) “Go on.”

Sherlock jumps up, so much smoother than John ever could. He steps towards the mirror and turns so he can see his own back. He seems satisfied. “Excellent work, John.”

“Hm, _I know_.” John consciously repeats Sherlock’s words just to see Sherlock smile. 

After the camera crew have shot their footage, John covers Sherlock’s tattoo with a thin layer of Vaseline and a square of cling film. 

They are called to judging. 

John winces when he pushes himself onto the tall chair. So does Janine, he sees, her hip is tattooed. Molly has an upper leg spanned off - the edge of the cling film peeks from under her dress. Soo Lin’s ankle has some slight swelling despite her elevating it earlier. Sherlock is the only one who is moving normally, but the cling film leaves visible lines under his shirt. 

Mike commences the judging, “You put your own bodies on the line for this flash challenge. Let’s see how you did. Molly, you are up first.” 

Molly’s tattoo is shown on the screen. She tattooed a hand holding a dagger onto Janine’s hip. John wonders whether Janine asked for it specifically. If not, Molly chose well because it seems like her thing. 

“Very clean, very legible illustration,” Mike says. 

“The varying line weights are used smartly, and from a distance you do create shading using only small lines.” Irene seems happy with it. “Well done, Molly.” 

Janine’s work is shown next. She tattooed ornamental lines and pearls onto Soo Lin’s ankle. 

“A little easy, that. Going decorative.” Jim stares her down. 

Janine says matter-of-factly, “I chose to do something I knew I could do well.” 

“We can’t fault that.” Mike nods.

Irene prompts, “Soo Lin, let’s see what you did?” 

Her elephant pops onto the screen. 

“One of the main areas where you can show some details would be in the trunk and the eyes, and I think you missed that opportunity,” Mike says. 

It’s a bit unfair, that. She only had two hours to tattoo the entire thing. 

“Compositionally, it looks unfinished,” Irene muses. “It leaves you wanting to know where the rest of this elephant is.” 

“I had to choose what I could do in the time provided,” Soo Lin says, sensibly. 

“She can do the rest of the elephant later.” Molly stands up for her. “Colour it in, too.” She looks at Soo Lin. “I think it’s great.” 

“Sherlock…” Sherlock’s tattoo of London appears onto the screen.

John wasn’t able to get a full look at it in the mirror; it’s even more impressive like this. The detail on it is amazing.

“It’s simple, very legible. One pass is what we were looking for because it proves that you can sink a line and not go back to it,” Mike says.

“How meticulous… Sherlock, this is without _any_ reference? You just know this?” Irene is more than impressed. 

“I know London,” Sherlock says calmly. 

“Yes, you sure do.” She smiles at him. 

“And lastly, John.” John sees his anatomical heart appear onto the screen. 

“This is very uniform throughout. It looks like an old illustration out of a classic textbook,” Mike says. 

John smiles. Exactly. Trust Mike to see what he tried to put in there. 

“You have different line weights in very decisive directions; those lines really show the contour and the shape. The craftsmanship in your linework is very clean.” Irene sounds pleased. 

“Plus the anatomical knowledge needed to pull this off. Not a line is wrong here,” Mike points out. 

“A heart, John?” Jim grins in a way that makes him feel a bit uneasy. “How _romantic_.” 

John purposely doesn’t look at Sherlock. Jesus, it wasn’t meant like that. 

The judges deliberate for a moment, but it doesn’t take long at all. John thinks he can hear his own name in there a few times. 

They turn back towards them, and Mike says, “The winner of this flash challenge is… John!” 

_Yes!_

“That was an exceptional reproduction of an anatomical heart, very difficult to do without a reference.” Mike seems happy for him that he pulled it off. 

Sherlock looks at him proudly, too. 

John grins. “Thank you.” 

 

-

 

“Now,” Mike continues, “We know it’s been a long day so far, so I’ll ask you to stay seated, and we’ll give you the instructions for tomorrow’s elimination tattoo.” 

All right. They stay put while the judges disappear. 

Molly tells him, “I love how that came out, John.” 

“Thanks, yeah.” John tries to put Jim’s comment out of his mind. Did Sherlock take it like that, the heart design? If he didn’t want it, he would have said no, though, wouldn’t he? 

“And Sherlock, a map of London... It’s so detailed, I could never do that.” 

Janine is looking at her phone. “’Bridge says that he would have loved to tattoo any of you.” She grins. “As long as it’s not on the arse.” 

They laugh. 

Jim, Mike, and Irene make another entrance. Jim seems to be in a good mood, bouncing on his feet and quipping “Now you see us, now you don’t!”

Mike takes the lead again and says, “The theme of tomorrow’s elimination tattoo will be… trash polka.”

“Finally!” Janine smiles widely. 

John has never done that style. He didn’t think it would come up, really. Soo Lin looks thoughtful. Sherlock’s not giving anything away, neither is Molly.

“Now you can go to the hotel, sketch, and take care of your fresh tattoos. Rest and prepare, because tomorrow you will meet your canvasses and execute your tattoos.”

John gets off his chair carefully and walks to the exit with Sherlock next to him. 

It’s strange to see that it’s still light out. It feels like they’ve been stuck in the studio for ages, but it’s only mid-afternoon. It looks like it rained again while they were inside, too. 

John starts, “So, trash polka?”

“I have some experience with the style.” Sherlock sounds as self-assured as ever. 

“Well, good, ‘cause I don’t.” John has barely heard of it. Mary’s got a book where there are some examples, and he has a vague idea of some lettering splashed over a bloke’s chest. They’re big tattoos, he knows that much. Modern-looking. 

Sherlock walks towards the awning and hands him a cigarette without hesitation. “The style was conceptualised at Buena Vista Tattoo Club in Germany by Simone Plaff and Volko Merschky.” 

John lights his cigarette. 

“It resembles fine art collages in the sense that it combines realistic images with smears, smudges, and kinetic designs that generate a discordant look.” 

“Right.” The smell and the burn in John’s lungs feel familiar already. He’ll quit again after this, it’s not like he wants to make a habit out of it. But dammit, this is good. 

Sherlock takes the lighter back and lights his own cigarette, shielded from the wind. “According to Volko, this style is a combination of realism and trash. It is about nature and the abstract, technology and humanity, opposites that they are trying to combine into a creative dance.” 

John grins. “Did you memorise all that, then?”

Sherlock looks mildly offended. “It is about finding a balance between beauty and chaos, John.” 

_A balance of beauty and chaos._ John looks at Sherlock and swallows away some bright burst of feeling. Who else would ever say that? Sherlock means it, too, every word. He’s the most talented sod John’s ever seen. And John gets to work with him. 

He asks, “You want to come to my room to sketch?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. 

 

-

 

Three hours later, they’re still debating styles. 

“Your design lacks a modern flavour, John. Do dare to take risks when it comes to perspective.”

“Yeah? Yours is all too reliant on your linework. How about some bright colour? Use that red like paint, splash it over there.” 

There are two trays with room service balanced on the small table between them, and several cigarette butts in the improvised ashtray by the window. 

Sherlock argues, “I do have an appreciation for colour work.” His shirt is pulled out of his trousers because it was irritating his tattoo, and his bare toes twitch on the hotel room carpet while he speaks. 

“’Course, yeah, but you treat it like a chore.” John has his sleeves rolled up, showing off his ink. “You think because you’re a brilliant tattoo artist you can do it all. Well, I challenge you to old school then, flat-out traditional.” 

“I imagine I could design the plane as a Second World War bomber. Does that count as being old school?” Sherlock stretches his arms over his head and leans back into his seat. 

“Ha.” John lazily sits back against the cushions on the bed as well. “Nice try, but no.” 

He feels almost drunk. They haven’t had more than a glass or two each from the bottle of wine standing between them, but it’s like that, that warmth, the flow of conversation, the flush of Sherlock’s cheeks even. John can’t see himself but he’s sure he’s the same. 

Sherlock throws a small glance his way, then answers, “I prefer to follow my own way artistically, outside of any predicted style.” 

“Only artistically?” John licks his lips. He wants to kiss him so bad it hurts. “Seems to me you do and say whatever the fuck you please.”

“Not on every occasion.” Sherlock stands and selects another cigarette out of the pack lying on the windowsill. 

Half the pack’s already gone. John doesn’t care. He’ll buy a dozen more if that means he gets to see Sherlock lightly spread his legs as he leans back against the windowsill and his lips settle around a freshly lit cigarette, then blow the smoke out slowly. 

“Yeah? When?” 

John sits up and goes over to him, expecting a story about the one time Sherlock managed to be a law-abiding citizen or something equally funny. 

But Sherlock looks him straight in the eye. “You know when, John.”

 _Oh, does he ever._ John’s not sure what to say. He looks at Sherlock. “Um…” 

Sherlock says it for him. “You want me.” 

“...Yes. Yes, yeah, I do.” John hasn’t got a thing to lose, admitting that. He’s close enough he can see the dark pull of Sherlock’s eyes and the shine of his lips. Close enough that he could go for it and kiss him, if he wanted to. The thought thunders through him. 

Sherlock looks him over, puts his cigarette down, and takes a breath as if he’s about to speak. 

John gets there first and kisses him. 

Their lips brush together and Sherlock immediately kisses back fast, as if he thinks there won’t be more after this. He’s greedy, hurried, nipping at his lips, and John’s right there with him. Just once, just.... It’s hot, dirty, it’s _electric_.

“God.” John gasps for breath and tilts his head back. He’s shaking on his legs. He can taste the cigarettes. 

Sherlock is achingly close still. John thought they’d get this far and then call it over with, but... Just meeting his eyes makes waves of desire roll through him. 

John pulls Sherlock closer, pressing their bodies together. His heart thuds heavily in his chest. He wants this. He’s dreamed of this, fantasised, and he can’t, he shouldn’t, but... He tangles his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and _pulls_ until Sherlock kisses him again. John opens his mouth and makes it wet and needy and desperate. 

He kisses the side of Sherlock’s neck, tastes his skin and his tattoos, bites until Sherlock’s breathing stutters. His hands roam over Sherlock’s sides, his back – careful of the tattoo – his _arse_. Sherlock kisses and touches him back just as franticly. John leans a leg between Sherlock’s, and Sherlock grinds his hips against him. He’s hard. The feeling flashes through John, searing hot against his stomach. A _cock_. “Ah, Jesus…”

“You are now comparing me to various deities, John.” Sherlock’s voice has an astonished edge that John wants to hear again and again. 

John slides his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, watches for his smile, and replies, “Yeah, if I try I’ll have you worshipping Christ in no time.”

“You believe so?” Sherlock gives him that look, and John’s erection twitches. God, he’s so bloody lucky. Here, right now. 

“I do, yeah.” John traces Sherlock’s hipbones and his hot, sweaty stomach down to where his erection is. John can’t get his hand on it but Sherlock opens his trouser buttons for him, one after the other, then pushes his pants out of the way. John gets to see Sherlock’s cock bounce up, red and hard. John can _smell_ it, what he did to him. 

John urgently unzips his own trousers, he doesn’t care what fabric is in the way, he pulls his own cock out into the air for Sherlock’s eyes to see. Sherlock reaches out without a second of hesitation. 

“Oh!” John’s toes curl when he feels the hot pressure of Sherlock’s hand holding him. 

He can see his own need reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. He can feel it, trembling between them. 

John can’t help but kiss Sherlock again, seeking the heat of his mouth. They kiss and grind together, grabbing, feeling, pulling each other even closer. Sherlock is moving his hips rhythmically, and it adds a spike of need at every pass. Sherlock’s other hand starts roaming over John’s arse unashamedly. It feels like the ground tilts from under his legs. 

He has to warn him, John breathes in-between gasps, “I’m close, I…” 

Sherlock pulls him off while he kisses him, steering him right to the edge of what he can take. John’s cock is throbbing, it’s as if every bit of Sherlock’s touch and every sensation of Sherlock’s body against his is all combining into making him skirt that edge, holding on, wanting, needing… 

“John.” Sherlock says it, and John’s shaking, actually shaking as if he’s about to come apart entirely. “Let go.”

John obeys so intensely his eyes feel as if they roll back into his skull, and all of him falls apart, coming under Sherlock’s touch. John steps back, still gushing onto Sherlock’s hand, feeling all tension drain out of him in the greatest rush. 

God, yes. Sherlock looks at him with dark eyes. 

_That was perfect._ John weakly grabs Sherlock’s arse and pulls him flush against him, against his cock and the come there. “Go on.” 

Sherlock ruts there, first slowly, in a hesitant, stuttering movement, his hard cock rubbing the come around. Then faster, his breath coming in quick bursts. John holds his arse and kneads it. _Go on, do it._

“ _Ah_.” He sounds close. 

Sherlock urgently puts his hand on himself and starts pulling himself off, fast. John swallows heavily, his chest thudding just watching this. Sherlock’s eyes widen, his hand falters, John squeezes his arse and he gasps, then… _Yes._ Sherlock comes over John’s cock, over John’s skin, he can feel the hot bursts of come drip over his thigh. 

Bloody hell. Sherlock steps away as soon as he’s done, but John is still wavering, full of... everything. 

Sherlock turns towards the bathroom, while John stumbles and sinks down onto the bed. 

John’s whole body is still thudding with this. He’s shaky, sweaty, flushed all over. He has come all over his leg, trousers, and the bottom of his shirt - his own and Sherlock’s. He smells like it, too. 

He can hear Sherlock run the tap. 

After a moment, Sherlock reappears, already looking for his shoes. 

“Hey, you can stay.” John would stand, but he’s not entirely sure his legs could take it. He’s still floored by what they just did. 

“I need to work on preparing several stencils in order to be able to use them on various body parts.” Sherlock bends down to tie his shoes. 

Is that an excuse for escaping? John quickly says, “If one of us wins, there’s a story in it.” He pulls out the big guns. “Story of how I got shot, if you’re interested.” 

Sherlock looks up and studies him for a moment. “...I am.” 

“Well then.” John feels radical, sitting here with his cock out and covered in both of their come. As if he could say or do anything. “Better win tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s mouth pulls just a little, but it’s enough to make this all right, what just happened. They’ll still be friends in the morning, John thinks. 

He knows it when Sherlock says, something warm in his voice, “Good night, John.” 

“Night.” 

Sherlock leaves. John drags himself to the bathroom, to clean up and get rid of his clothes, as well as take care of his stinging tattoos. He’s still shaking a bit. It was amazing sex. 

He always knew it would be.

 

-

 

John sleeps like a rock. 

He only wakes up when his alarm goes off. Of course then he moves his legs, feels dual pulls of pain from the back of his knees, and he remembers every single bit of what happened. 

Being tattooed by Sherlock. Kissing him. Feeling him come. 

John washes and shaves, wraps his tattoos, then dresses and sends a text Mary’s way saying good morning and that he’s ready for the next elimination tattoo. It’s like the war, this. He knows he needs to feel guilty. He will. But not yet. John could sleep in James’ arms and fight in the morning without a problem then, too. 

He exits his room and runs into Molly waiting by the lifts. She seems surprised when she sees him. “John! I, ah... Good morning.” Her hair is braided into some complicated plait today. She looks good.

“Morning.” John waits with her. When the door opens they enter the lift together.

“How did you two get on designing yesterday?” Molly asks quickly. 

_You two._ “…We did well, yeah. You?” 

John zones out during Molly’s answer involving ravens. _Sherlock’s cock grinding over his. Sherlock’s smile._

God. What the hell did he do?

The lift pings before Molly’s fully done talking. They walk towards the sofas to see Sherlock seated there. He's breathtakingly attractive even though it’s pissing it down outside and the lobby’s gloomy. 

“Doctor Watson.” Sherlock says it softly, almost secretly, and John’s chest stutters. 

“Sherlock.” _Why did he ever let him leave?_ John should have pulled him into bed and kept him all night, kissed him everywhere, then fucked him into oblivion. He should have done every single thing he could think of and then some. 

“Hello.” Soo Lin walks up to them as well and asks, “Did you decide on a design?” 

“Western honeybees,” Sherlock replies, with a brief look at him. “And a 1942 Avro Lancaster four-engine Second World War heavy bomber.” 

John grins. “Almost old school, that.” 

“My aunt’s a beekeeper, in China,” Soo Lin offers. 

“Where in China?” Sherlock turns his attention to her. “What type of bees?” 

Janine joins them as well, and they walk outside and hurry through the miserable weather together. 

When Sherlock’s eyes meet his, they seem to hold their own secrets now. John doesn’t know whether it was just a one-off, or not. He’ll be fine either way, John tells himself. 

It'll be fine. 

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

“Welcome to your next elimination tattoo.” Mike is looking a bit rained on this morning as well. 

The production assistants had to hand them all towels to dry off before they could start today. Sherlock seemed fussy about his hair – John loved watching him style his curls by ruffling them with his fingers. 

“Let’s meet your canvasses.” A row of volunteers walk out, and Mike continues, “John, you won the illustrative blackwork flash challenge, so you now have the power to assign the canvasses. They are open to any design, but they have a location in mind where they want to be tattooed.” 

Right. John had wondered what his advantage would be. But only in some general sort of way. Truth be told, he wasn’t thinking about the challenge for most of last night. 

He gets up and walks to the first volunteer. “Where would you like to get tattooed, then?” 

It’s a soft-spoken older man, who says, “On my back.” The next is a young woman who wants a tattoo on her ribs. Then a bloke who wants his upper arm, a middle-aged woman who wants her hip done, and then last a muscled bloke who wants his shoulder. 

John doesn’t have much of a strategy. He decides on impulse. “Sherlock, you tattoo on the back.” 

Sherlock nods. He’ll be happy with that, John thinks. 

“I’ll take the upper arm.” His design was oval shaped anyway, that’ll work well. 

“Soo Lin can work on the ribs, Janine the hip, and Molly the shoulder.” There. John hasn’t seen their designs, it just seems like they’ll do fine there. The ribs is probably hardest, but then it’s a young woman as a client, so Soo Lin will be good with her, he thinks. 

“You have six hours to create a trash polka tattoo.” Mike looks at all of them. “And your time begins... now!”

John nods at the client he chose. “Come along to my shop, and we can get started.” 

“So what are you doing?” He sounds easy-going enough. 

“A face, actually, I’ll show you the stencil.” John tries to focus on what he drew – in part guided by Sherlock – yesterday. It’s a woman’s face in side profile. Sherlock helped him with the edges of the neck and the hair. 

The client seems happy enough with it, so John puts the stencil on, prepares his tattoo machine, and gets going. 

The buzzing of tattooing starts up everywhere. 

John hasn’t done many tattoos like this - clear, normal faces in side profile. Not on this scale, either, usually in pin-ups they’re small. The hair’s dark and easy enough to do, but the colour work is harder, a lot of circles. John tries tattooing them slowly and securely. Precision is what he needs here. Not speed. 

Mary hasn’t replied to his text yet. But then she’s busy, probably. It’s a normal weekday, so Rosie’s off to nursery, and Mary’s likely tattooing right now as well. John can imagine her in their shop, bent over some bright colour work, a strand of her hair falling into her eyes. 

He should feel like shit. He did _that_ – last night – to her. 

It wasn’t an accident. He didn’t get drunk. Or not much. John chose to do it, he wanted to. 

John tattoos another circle and tries to tell himself he’s being an absolute arse. He met Mary in Mike’s shop, almost five years ago now. She was the mouthy blonde who came in every once in a while because they ordered the needles in bulk from the US. The one who Mike introduced with, “Oh, don’t you two know each other? Mary runs her own shop, AGRA Tattoo.” 

She asked him out. The thought was so strange to him then, that anyone would actually be interested, that John said yes out of sheer surprise. She asked again, and suddenly John was eating out every night and going to films and sitting in her bright little shop, and he thought that he might have a life, still. 

So that’s why he married her. Because he looked at her and thought ‘more than I ever thought I’d have.’ And he’s grateful to Mary, so grateful, without her... No, he probably wouldn’t still be here. 

But he _is_ here, and he’s close to blowing it all up. Purposely. 

No one deserves a husband like that, do they? 

John makes sure he gets over halfway into the outline and colour work, then musters a smile for his client and says, “How about a break? Ten minutes?” 

He walks towards Sherlock, who is tattooing [a gorgeously detailed bomber plane](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgbKmgclqx0/?taken-by=j.m.mee). John’s eyes want to take in every bit of in Sherlock’s skill, Sherlock’s hands, the tiny frown on Sherlock’s forehead. “How’s the plane with bees, then?”

“I will put in more colour in the circle.” Sherlock looks up and smiles very briefly. “Making it appear as if ‘paint was splashed there’.” 

John returns the smile. “Yeah, see you do.”

Sherlock bends back over his work, so John has a wander past the others as well. Molly’s doing her ravens. They’re dramatic, John thinks. “Good work, that.” 

“Thank you!” Molly smiles at him. “I did wonder whether it was enough trash polka, but then I thought the red would bring it out?” 

“Looks right to me.” Despite Sherlock’s vivid explanation, John hasn’t got a clue what the rules of this style are, really. “It’s good work, you’ll be on top.” 

It really is. John walks past Soo Lin’s to hear her client crying in soft gasps. “Ow, ow, ow, it hurts so bad!” 

John meets Soo Lin’s eyes. She’s working on a tattoo of New York City, oddly enough. The Chrysler building’s looking a bit crooked. There’s nothing he can say though, is there? 

He returns to his own shop and passes Janine’s. She has various blue inks standing out, surprisingly. She looks up. “This is a fun challenge, isn’t it? I love this style.” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, really,” John admits. 

“I wanted to intern in a shop specialising in these, originally,” Janine says. “Never made it, but maybe someday.” 

John turns back to his own shop and settles in with his client to finish up the detail work. He’s not sure whether he’s doing that well, compared to everyone else. He doesn’t want to go home though. 

Not before he gets to have more of this. 

The time ticks down. John’s done before the cut off, so he takes care to wipe the skin down and clean his workspace before Mike even announces, “Three, two, one… Machines down!” 

John looks back at his work. [A trash polka woman’s face](https://www.instagram.com/p/BggXe3pF4hG/?taken-by=j.m.mee). Was it good enough? He doesn’t know. 

Maybe he should ask to be eliminated today. Leave this and everything he could have been. Would that be the right thing to do? Go home, tell Mary his leg couldn’t take it. Lie about all of it. 

By the time they’re finished filming his tattoo and John’s said goodbye to his client, Sherlock is in conversation with Janine. “…could attempt to contact Math, who specialises in ‘Dark Trash’.” 

“Or Paul Talbot?” Janine asks. “I love him.” 

“Possibly. He mainly refers to himself as a tattoo collage artist, but his work is heavily influenced by the style.” 

John follows them to go sit on the high chairs for judging. Now there are fewer contestants, the production team works faster. 

The judges are already gathering up front. 

“Hello, artists.” Mike seems happy to be up there. “John, let’s have a look at your tattoos.” 

His tattoo appears onto the screen. It’s all right, John thinks. Although maybe he overdid it on the shading in the cheekbones. He’s never been a black and grey artist. He can’t get it anywhere near as subtle as Molly’s shading tends to be, or as precise as Sherlock’s. 

“There are a lot of impressive areas to this tattoo. The composition is great,” Mike says. “I like the shape of her hair, how that breaks off with the dots coming off and the red coming through. I like how her neck turns into the dots as well.”

Yeah, gotta thank Sherlock for some of that. 

“But the face. The shading!” Jim rolls his eyes. 

Irene picks in, “It’s just a very strange choice to commit to that dark.”

Shit. He should have seen that. John just nods, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Molly, let’s have a look at what you did,” Mike prompts. 

[](https://www.instagram.com/p/BggXe3pF4hG/?taken-by=j.m.mee)[Molly’s ravens](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgliGANlSjF/?taken-by=j.m.mee) are shown on the screen. It’s a great tattoo, John still thinks so.

“What really makes your tattoo stand out is the detail in both birds, and the ability to achieve different tones from the black to the greys,” Irene says.

Yeah well, Molly is a bloody black and grey artist. John never was. 

“You did something that’s really concentrated on lines, but you still created a lot of movement through the tattoo with the heavy dark image at the bottom and then some areas of red throughout so it doesn’t just have a straight block feel.” Mike’s getting technical here. 

“It’s birds. _Again_.” Jim looks at her. “I _am_ a fan…” He motions towards his arm sleeves with magpies. “But try something else next time.”

“Yes,” Irene adds diplomatically. “Wonderful work, but perhaps try to stay away from them in the future.” 

[Soo Lin’s tattoo of New York City](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgwEsGeBLYz/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is next. It’s visibly wobbly. She tattooed on the ribs, and John feels a bit bad about that now, the girl really cried her eyes out there. But then Soo Lin could have convinced her to change the idea, if she wanted to. 

“Looking at the tattoo, it’s very busy,” Mike starts. 

“The Empire State Building is crooked as hell,” Jim announces. “That outline gets _wild_.”

“Because you worked on the ribs, some lesser lines are acceptable,” Irene says. “But I can see a lot of them.” 

Soo Lin seems gutted. She looks down at her lap. 

“Sherlock? Let’s see your work.” 

Sherlock’s tattoo does have some old school flavour, John thinks, but in a way only Sherlock could come up with. That plane is perfect. And the bees are just him. A tad crazy, but detailed and researched. He _worked_ on this, John knows. Sherlock actually had sex with him and then went back to his room and sketched for part of the night. 

“The crosshair pattern with these circles sits nicely on the body, and I think it’s one of the more creative conceptual ideas that we’ve seen today.” Irene sounds excited about it. 

“The circles with the plane coming out of it give it a very cool, old war propaganda feel,” Mike says. “It shows a lot of imagination.” 

John thinks of what Mike said about Sherlock - ‘Genius.’ Sherlock is, isn’t he? 

“ _This_ is how to come out and play the game.” Jim winks. 

John looks at Sherlock to catch his reaction, but Sherlock has his lips closely pressed together. It’s weird, how he never speaks up in judging. Maybe he doesn’t want to risk insulting them, John thinks. 

“Janine, you are up last.” 

[Janine’s Cheshire Cat tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg1TMdbhXZM/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is projected onto the screen. It instantly makes the judges smile. 

“Well!” Mike says. “That’s unusual for the style.” 

“I know.” Janine seems entirely confident in what she has done. “But trash polka is about breaking the rules and employing a single colour element to great impact. I believe I did that here.”

“You certainly did. This really stands out from the others,” Irene says. 

“Exemplary colour work, and definitely audacious to go for anything else than red.” Jim nods at her. “I approve.” 

“All right,” Mike comes in. “We have seen all of your tattoos.” He looks at the other judges. “What are your votes?”

John looks at Sherlock. It’s going to be him. It has to be, that tattoo is sheer brilliance. Or did they like Molly’s more? Or Janine’s? 

“Janine,” Jim says with a grin. “Definitely.”

Irene looks torn. “I think both Sherlock and Molly gave us a stunning tattoo that answered the style brief well.” She tilts her head. “My vote is for Sherlock.”

Mike takes the folded piece of paper by his hand and reads it. “The judges have decided. The best tattoo of the day is…”

They all shift in their seats waiting for the verdict. 

“...Janine. We loved your creativity and daring.” 

“Yes!” She punches the air and smiles widely. “Damn right!” 

Mike smiles indulgently at her, then changes towards a sterner expression. “And now for the worst tattoo of the day.” Mike shakes his head. “It’s between two of you: Soo Lin, and John.” 

Shit. John simply nods. Fine, yes. He fucked up. He knows that. 

“Trying to do that much linework on the ribs is unforgivable,” Irene says. “It’s basic knowledge every tattoo artist needs to have. My vote is for Soo Lin.” 

Jim agrees, “John’s shading was horrific, but everything else was on point. Soo Lin’s wasn’t.” 

“Soo Lin,” Mike announces. “You are out.” 

John breathes. 

Molly immediately reaches over and hugs Soo Lin, and John can hear her whisper, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Great work.” John makes a point out of standing up and reaching out a hand. Soo Lin’s talented as hell; she didn’t deserve to go over this. 

Soo Lin nods. She’s not crying, but it’s a close call, John thinks. Molly’s not holding back nearly as much, she has tears rolling over her cheeks. 

Janine doesn’t say much of anything. She seems mainly pleased to have won. 

“You are an outstanding artist, Soo Lin Yao.” Sherlock sounds solemn when he turns towards her. “Do not let this result interfere with your career. Your Oriental work is exceptional.” 

Her eyes widen at that. “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

It is quite the compliment. 

Sherlock walks off, so John gives her one last look and leaves the comforting to the women. He goes after Sherlock. 

It’s raining dully. Sherlock’s waiting for him by the awning. 

Sherlock lights a cigarette, and when John holds out his hand he wordlessly receives one as well. 

They smoke and watch the rain. Soo Lin and Molly walk past arm in arm towards the hotel to pack up Soo Lin’s things. Janine walks beside them, clearly willing to be generous now she won the challenge. 

“You nearly won,” John offers. 

“Nearly.” Sherlock flicks his cigarette to the ground and watches it go out with a hiss. His eyes seem to say all sorts of things that hook into John’s chest and pull him in. 

John glances back at Sherlock with something heavy thumping inside of him. What does he want here, really? What does he think is going to happen? 

He looks around – no one in sight - and steps closer. Sherlock eyes him, but he doesn’t lean away.

John kisses him. He touches Sherlock’s warm lips to his cooler ones and tastes cigarettes and rain between them in a quick, bright flash of feeling. 

He chooses to. 

 

\---

 

John remembers all too well what they did after. 

He’s sitting in his Travelodge room, a beer and partially eaten take-away on the bed next to him, staring at the TV and some show he doesn’t care about because he didn’t have the energy to turn the TV off after the competition ended. 

He traces an absent hand over the tender skin at the back of his knee. 

They hurried back to the hotel, and John kissed the rain off Sherlock’s lips, sucked and bit his neck, held him, touched him, brought him to orgasm with his mouth, then tasted his come. 

It was selfish. Naive, to think it meant anything at all. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make himself regret it. Not even now. 

When his phone buzzes, for a second John still thinks that maybe it’s... but no. The caller ID says ‘Mike Stamford’. “Hello, John. I heard you’re looking for a shop to rent? It’s just, I had a client today who’s got a vintage clothing shop that’s gone bust and...” 

John barely listens to Mike. Decent, good Mike, who heard he needs a shop and looked around for him, because that’s the kind of person Mike is. The one to ask about Rosie, and how Mary’s holding up. Whether there’s anything he can do. 

When all John wants to ask is ‘How’s Sherlock?’ 

He doesn’t, of course. 

It ended the day the competition did.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Technique (Sherlock)

 

 

“It was an exemplary rendering of the _trash polka_ style, I am told.” Mycroft’s mouth pulls around the unfamiliar words, but he still manages to appear faintly proud. “Your black and grey realistic honeybees were positively received as well.” 

Sherlock doesn’t care for Mycroft’s _opinion_. He lies back onto the sofa and curls into his dressing gown. “Say what you want to say and leave.”

“Very well.” Mycroft glances at the file lying on his lap. “John Watson has filed for divorce from his wife Mary Watson, née Morstan, almost two weeks ago.” 

He holds the information out like a gift. A morsel of evidence that Sherlock is meant to be grateful for. 

It’s already annoying enough that Mycroft deduced it, that he took one look at the first episode and immediately knew that John was the one who… Sherlock trains his eyes on the ceiling and shrugs. “So?” 

“Perhaps apologies of some kind would be in order?” Mycroft places the file on the side table with a soft rustle. 

No. John’s marriage was deteriorating long before his little adventure with Sherlock. They only slept together, that is all. Sherlock says what he knows will jolt Mycroft into leaving. “It was only _sex_ , Mycroft.” 

Predictably, Mycroft sighs deeply. He takes an extraordinary amount of time straightening his jacket before he moves off the chair, then considers him calmly. “Was it?” 

Sherlock is left looking at Mycroft’s retreating back, pushing back the urge to sob like a child. 

He can still feel John’s touch on the tattooed heart between his shoulder blades. 

 

\---

 

Episode Six

Sherlock considers himself carefully in the hotel bathroom mirror. The red marks on his neck are partially hidden by his geometrical dot work, but the one directly underneath his ear, where his _great auricular_ nerve meets the edge of his jawbone, stands out. 

It is still faint enough not to be noticed on camera, Sherlock believes. But he himself cannot look at his own reflection without deducing what such a marking signifies. Time spent with a new lover, clearly. Eagerness. It implies desire to taste another’s skin, to produce cries and sounds of ecstasy. To break one another down into shivers and muttered swears, to grind and lick and bite like rutting animals stuck in a frenzy of want. 

It is almost boring how common-place such a thing is. 

Sherlock has had plenty of sex in his life. He has found willing partners whenever he so pleased, and this is no different. It is lust, that is all. Even if John seems eager. Even if John appears to sincerely wish for his company. Everyone lies. John lies with his words, his body, and the look in his eyes. 

This happens everywhere, Sherlock tells himself. In every corner of the city, bored and closeted men cheat on their wives with younger, different lovers and call it a revelation. 

Sherlock knows that he cannot count on John’s continuing desire. Or friendship. Or willingness to even admit to knowing him. But then that is a truth he accepted when he decided to allow this. Sherlock had expected that John would have a crisis of morality in the middle of their first time. Or right after. That he would turn on him with nothing but his self-hate projected outwards – Sherlock has seen it often enough. 

But not John Watson. 

John smiled, right after. John looked him in the eye, the next morning. Sherlock was not ridiculed for wanting him, but given due consideration. Later, a kiss in the rain. Then a repeat encounter. Last night, John kissed him, then fellated him with such shining joy that Sherlock could not do anything else than kneel on the bed and return the gesture right then and there. 

John attempted to kiss him afterwards as well, but Sherlock had to leave before it became too much and he would spin outside of himself. 

Sherlock went to bed alone last night, then woke alone this morning. With a thrilling thud in his heart. 

He spends several minutes in front of the mirror observing himself, then ruffles his curls, wears his tightest trousers and leaves his shirt partially unbuttoned. Sherlock wants John again. He wants John to hold him and tell him he is brilliant. He wants to believe in the great lie for just a day longer. Two, perhaps. 

Sherlock takes the lift down to see John already waiting for him in the lobby. 

“Good morning, Doctor.” 

As always, John’s face blossoms under Sherlock’s meagre words. 

“Morning, you.” John smiles teasingly and stands up by leaning his weight on his cane, clearly attempting to hide the obvious flash of pain accompanying the motion.

Adrenaline, Sherlock remembers. John requires the kick, the fight, the thrill of this. So instead of alluding to any of their previous activities, Sherlock comments, “You will need to take greater risks today than you did on your last tattoo, John.” 

“I plan to, yeah.” John seems determined. He even grins. “Can’t have you winning another one before I do.” 

“I likely will.” Sherlock does not say it lightly. He is more talented than anyone here. Soo Lin might have outshone him in a colour or Oriental tattoo, but she has been eliminated. Molly can challenge him in black and grey work, certainly. John could do so in old school, and Janine’s talents seem to lie in graffiti and similar styles. But when it comes to sheer artistic ability, Sherlock will win. 

“Ha!” John laughs. “Not beat with the modesty stick, were you.”

“Would you prefer for me to be modest?” Sherlock asks it while they slowly move towards the exit. It is a genuine question. Would John – and by extension, anyone – prefer it if he were to act as if he possesses average human emotion? 

“God no.” John looks at him. “Enough pretence out there, isn’t there?” 

Sherlock can only agree. 

 

-

 

Flash Challenge

They smoke outside, in rough inhales of icy wind and smoke, and then take their seats in the studio. His lips are still raw from last night - Sherlock keeps on worrying them and tasting the metallic tang of abused skin. 

“Good morning contestants.” Mike appears onto the small stage, accompanied by the other two judges, and commences his standard introduction. “Only the four of you are left to compete for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.” 

Sherlock wants John to bite down harder, tonight. To leave scars upon him in passion. 

“Your flash challenge today is a special one,” Mike continues. He looks towards the entrance, where - in bright orange robes - a monk walks in. 

“This is Phra Khem, a Buddhist monk. He will train you in the ancient Thai art of…” Irene pauses for effect. “Bamboo tattooing.”

Ah. Sherlock is aware of the practice, naturally. He has identified several authentic Sak Yant tattoos on corpses in the past few years, but there is little specific crime relation to them. 

“You will get a half hour lesson from Phra Khem, who is a master in his craft,” Mike says. “After which your canvasses will come in with a traditional Thai design for you to tattoo.” 

They all rise and move towards the large table in the middle of the studio, where five chunks of pig skin are laid out, as well as a several thin pieces of bamboo, needles, and small pots of ink. 

John asks him as they sit down, “You ever done this?” 

“I have not,” Sherlock admits. Hand-poked tattoos are common in many cultures of course, as well as prisons and the odd back alley, but Sherlock himself has never attempted it. 

He is entirely familiar with traditional Sak Yant designs however. As well as those commonly found in Samoan culture, the Maori tribe, Aztec tattoos, Inuit tattoos, henna designs from India, and traditional Japanese and Chinese tattoo art - Sherlock has studied them all extensively. But he has always chosen to base his own designs on natural, chemical, or biological elements, not tradition. 

“Soo Lin probably has,” Molly claims as she takes a seat across from them. 

“Soo Lin’s Chinese, not Thai,” Janine points out briskly. “Bit of a difference there.” 

The monk eyes them with a placid smile and says in heavily accented English, “’Sak’ is tap or tattoo. And ‘yant’ is yantra, so...” His smile turns larger. “Sak Yant tattoo!”

Sherlock tries not to show any outward signs of annoyance. These vapid explanations are par for the course in a television show. Also, John is sitting next to him.

In fact, John’s warm presence is so overwhelmingly distracting that Sherlock’s entire body wishes to lean closer towards him. 

He does not, instead Sherlock observes carefully as they are instructed on how to use a cotton ribbon to attach a cluster of needles to a stick of bamboo, and how to dip the stick into ink, then poke a design into the uncooperative pig skin. 

The monk’s fingers move quickly while they watch. He is piercing the pig skin with deceptive ease, effortlessly creating loops and curls. He probably learned this when he was a child and has had decades of practise. 

The meat smells under the studio lights. 

Janine makes a face at having to touch it. “Again, not even remotely halal, this.” She frowns. “Or kosher, if anyone cares.”

Sherlock assembles his own bamboo stick. He dips it in his small pot of ink and follows the monk’s example exactly by placing his fingers around the needles, then lightly tapping the pig skin. He starts with the intention to master straight lines before anything else. 

“...Not sure it’s particularly Buddhist, actually.” Janine eyes the monk.

John says to her, “There’s an artist who did live pigs, isn’t there? Tattooed them. Remember seeing it on the news, couple of years back.”

“Wim Delvoye. He tattooed live pigs in the nineties; I saw one of his exhibitions.” Janine commences by outlining a rose. “He did that shitting machine as well.” 

“ _Shitting_ machine?” Molly is carefully shaping several small forget-me-nots. 

Sherlock tunes them out and watches his own work. Then John’s. 

John’s hands are precise as he taps out a traditional swallow design. He catches his eye. “Kinda fun, this.” 

“It is... doable.” Their attempts are not filmed in great detail, which is why Sherlock does not mind too badly when his needles slide over the skin instead of piercing it correctly, and he has to dissemble the stick and reattach them. 

John even leans his leg next to his under the table. It creates a warm pressure. 

Sherlock allows the feeling to permeate all of him in a softly throbbing warmth while he taps out a basic mandala. 

Their half hour of practise time passes entirely too quickly. Sherlock has yet to truly master the technique when Mike announces, “Artists, your time is up.” 

John seems regretful to have to stand as well. 

“Janine, because of your win in the trash polka elimination challenge, you can assign which artist will tattoo which Sak Yant design,” Mike offers. 

Four clients walk into the studio. The first woman holds up a piece of paper that shows a type of lettering design and explains, “This is a Hah Taew tattoo. It consists of five lines of script, which are five yants, or magical spells.” 

“I want a Gao Yord tattoo,” the next client announces. “The nine peaks stand for universal powers.” 

A young woman asks for, “A Paed Tid tattoo, which is known as the eight directions. It symbolises travel and it wards off evil spirits.”

The last is a man in his late thirties - body builder, judging by his bulging biceps – who wants, “A Yant Suea, which is a tiger tattoo that gives strength, power, and protection.” 

“I’ll do the five lines,” Janine decides. She smiles, clearly pleased to be allowed to dictate this challenge. “Sherlock can do the tigers, John the peaks, and Molly the eight directions.” 

Mike tells them, “None of these tattoos can be placed below the waist, as that is considered offensive. Also please be respectful of the meanings and the designs themselves. You cannot alter them in any way.” 

They all retreat to their shops along with their new supplies. 

“You have two hours, and your time starts… now.” 

Sherlock’s stencil is already provided, so it is a simple case of applying it. While he does, Sherlock studies the design. The tigers are not overly complicated, and neither is the lettering, but is a sizeable design to accomplish by hand in such a short time. He lays out his bamboo stick, opens a new set of sterile needles, and pours his ink, then cautiously commences. 

Piercing human skin is entirely different from working on the cold and tough pig skin. Sherlock taps lightly, attempting to produce an even pressure. His fingers still feel uneasy around the bamboo stick, and he cannot afford a misstep. If the ink is only inserted into the top layers of the skin, the tattoo will not age well and even fade completely. If the ink is inserted too deep however, there is risk of scarring and blurring the design. 

About an hour into the challenge, Mike appears with the cameras behind him. “Sherlock, how are you doing?” 

Sherlock does not know how to reply. He cannot see the work of the others, so he does not know how well his own attempt compares to theirs. 

“It’s a challenge, isn’t it?” Mike’s eyes seem kind. 

“Obviously.” Sherlock turns to his work and allows the cameras to zoom in on his hands. 

He has never enjoyed being filmed. Sherlock focuses on his work and the tattoo he is shaping. If his design is not entirely finished, the client can have it completed later. If he makes mistakes however, these tigers will be ruined. 

The two hours pass too quickly. 

“Three, two, one, sticks down!” 

Sherlock stops tapping. As he suspected, he did not have enough time to complete the design. 

[His partial Yant Suea tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhraT7NFQnG/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is filmed, and he cleans and wraps it as he would a regular tattoo performed by a machine, even though the skin has been agitated less by this technique and it will likely heal faster. 

“Hey.” John is already waiting for him. 

Sherlock turns away from his client and strides towards the tall chairs on the other side of the studio. John follows. He glances at him, concern in his eyes. 

“I did not finish,” Sherlock admits. John undoubtedly saw.

“Right, well, you had the hardest one, yeah? Those tigers were a lot more difficult than just text.” John looks at him compassionately, which is entirely annoying. Sherlock does not require John’s _pity_. 

Mike smiles at them and says, “Let’s see how you did on your bamboo tattoos. Janine, you are up first.”

On the screen, [Janine’s Hah Taew tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhLc9VABVgB/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown. Even though she chose the easiest design to accomplish, the whole effect of this hand-tapped work is rather rough. Sherlock does not much like it. 

“You did well,” Mike says. 

“I can see some shaky bits,” Irene notes. “But then that’s to be expected when mastering an entirely new technique.” 

“You’ve never poked anyone then, Irene?” Jim eyes her. He is smiling, but there is something sharp behind it. 

She smiles teasingly. “Not that I can recall, Jim.”

“Let’s see your bamboo tattoo, John,” Mike prompts. 

[John’s Gao Yord tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhYSx3Eh-dP/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is detailed and carefully done. Nevertheless, there are some parts which he did not hit as cleanly as he should have. The truth seems to be that they all struggled with this technique. 

“Clean, for the most part,” Irene says. “Really, it’s quite good.”

Next is [Molly’s Paed Tid tattoo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhjmbfbFxr6/?taken-by=j.m.mee). It is impressive how well she managed the circle by hand. She did complete her design as well. They all did, except Sherlock. 

“This is really beautiful work, Molly,” Irene says. 

“That circle is very difficult to do like this,” Mike notes. Sherlock agrees. It takes quite a lot of skill. 

“Sherlock, let’s see your tigers.” 

Sherlock’s Yant Suea tattoo is shown on the screen.

“What you did was well done,” Irene says. “It’s very good work, very precise.” 

“But incomple-e-te!” Jim seems entirely too amused by that fact. 

Sherlock refuses to acknowledge him, or his glee. The judges turn towards one another and have a brief discussion that Sherlock does not listen to, either. He did not win, clearly. 

Less than a minute later, they turn back towards them and Mike announces, “The winner of this flash challenge is… Molly!”

Hardly surprising, considering she managed a full circle by hand. Molly smiles, “Thank you! It was fun.” 

“Because of your win, you will be allowed to assign the canvasses in the elimination challenge,” Mike says. 

Molly nods. 

She must realise that she can influence who makes it to the final now. Sherlock cannot be certain who Molly will attempt to eliminate, but the time for friendships – however unfounded – is surely past. If she is smart, she will follow Janine’s example and target him. 

John takes a seat on the large table in order to eat lunch, so Sherlock joins him. 

As ever, the noise of Janine talking grates on him. Their group feels too small now, too close. Soo Lin’s quiet presence is notably absent.

“So you’re a fan of Illma Gore?” Molly asks Janine. 

“God, yes! I saw her Trump portrait in the Maddox Gallery and...” Janine laughs loudly. “Genius, making his cock that small.” 

John says lowly, “We can go out in a bit?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees, feeling a thrumming in his stomach. He wants to go now. But John is eating. 

Sherlock selects a sandwich as well and picks at it while he waits for John to finish his meal. John chews heartily, as if he enjoys this. John’s hands are strong around his sandwich, and John’s mouth is working around the bread. John’s throat constricts as he places his mug of tea to his lips and swallows. 

“…Sherlock?” Molly asked him something. 

“Hm?” Sherlock only pulls his eyes away slowly. 

John smiles, a knowing tilt to his grin, and Molly repeats, “I asked what style you think it’ll be, the next challenge?”

“Difficult to predict.” Sherlock has given it some thought, naturally. Even when considering all the styles they have been asked to execute previously – old school, cover-up, pin-up, black and grey, illustrative blackwork, trash polka – there is no clear next step. “New school seems plausible.” Janine would be pleased. “Though it might be too close to the trash polka movement. Oriental is also a possibility. I imagine colour will be required regardless of style.”

“You’re probably right.” Molly winces. Like Sherlock, she is not a colour artist. 

Janine continues the discussion of what she believes is likely – a reproduction of modern art, truly - but Sherlock abandons his sandwich and leaves the table. He has had enough. 

Some quiet is invaluable for his mind to focus, and no matter what the next challenge might be, he needs to be prepared. 

Sherlock moves quickly, but when he reaches the exit and throws the door open, he is met by a cool blast of rain. Heavy streams of water are hitting the pavement. He hesitates. Sherlock can run through it easily enough, but he can hear the tap of John’s cane coming up behind him. 

“Wait up.” 

Sherlock turns around. Does John always want to join him now? No matter what he does? 

John tilts his head. “Come on. Change of plan.” 

He walks towards the gent’s bathroom. Sherlock follows him, even though he has little inclination towards having sex there. 

He has done so before, of course. Sherlock has knelt countless times in filthy toilet stalls to fellate men. So he could do it, for John. Sherlock eyes him. He could, if that is his fantasy. 

John pulls him into a stall and locks the door behind them. Sherlock is considering the limited space and how he can best kneel, when John leans in closer and - oddly - places a small kiss onto his cheek. 

John whispers, mouth close to his ear, “Can’t look at you either without wanting to kiss you.”

Sherlock feels entirely at a loss with this scenario. Is this why John brought him here, to _compliment_ him? 

“….You are attractive as well, John.” Sherlock fears it does not sound genuine enough, even though he means every word.

“Yeah, no need to put it on.” John laughs, but he looks at him with a small wrinkle between his eyebrows that Sherlock intensely wants to smooth away. 

John is here, looking at him, _worrying_ , and Sherlock can feel the knot in his throat expand. He swallows. 

“Hey.” John reaches out and touches his cheek. 

The touch is gentle. John strokes his skin with quiet earnestness, as if Sherlock deserves this. As if every moment is worth it, to him. Sherlock tilts his head and captures John’s lips with his own hurriedly, a deep need pulsing inside of him. _John, the things I..._

John leans away slowly. His voice breaks when he says, “Tonight. Tonight, yeah?” 

His eyes seem to promise the world. 

 

-

 

They return to the high chairs to watch the judges gather onto the small stage once again. Even though they were only briefly absent, it feels as if they walked into a whole different atmosphere. There is an apprehensive silence. 

Sherlock glances at John. 

This challenge might be the last for either of them. 

“Good afternoon, artists. For the next elimination challenge, you must tattoo…” Mike looks at each of them in turn, effectively creating tension. “....a famous work of art.” 

Janine grins. “Called it!”

“These paintings are some of the most recognisable in the world, so you must perfectly replicate your painting down to the brushstroke, as well as capture the details and its overall essence,” Irene says.

Sherlock has experience observing and reconceptualising art into tattoos, but that is not what this challenge is. Replication - they mean for them to use classical art, overly reproduced, nauseatingly _common_ , and copy it. 

He fails to see the artistry in this. 

“Molly,” Mike continues. “You won the Sak Yant tattoo flash challenge, so you can assign who tattoos which design. Let’s meet your canvasses.”

Four clients walk out. As Molly slides off her seat, the plastic wrap on her thigh is briefly visible. All of them are still healing their own tattoos. 

“What would you like?” Molly asks the first woman.

“I want a tattoo of ‘The Witches Sabbath’ by Goya.” 

Ah. That painting is not as trite as Sherlock had imagined, at least. He is rather fond of Goya’s later works. 

The next client is an older woman, who wants ‘Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat’ by Van Gogh.”

Then a young man who is clearly a ballet dancer requests, “’Dancers at the Barre’ by Degas.” 

And last is a woman asking for “’The Kiss’ by Klimt.”

_Boring._ As he feared, there is little originality there. Sherlock sighs.

“I want to do ‘Dancers at the Barre’.” Molly announces it with a smile.

It is a wise choice for her. The image has a certain abstract romanticism Sherlock assumes appeals to Molly’s aesthetic, and she will likely excel in blending the various tones and soft hues of the painting.

“‘The Witches Sabbath’ is for Janine.” 

Surprising. Sherlock had assumed Molly would assign it to him, considering it is the most difficult painting out of the four in terms of detail. 

Janine shifts uncomfortably. She must be aware that she was just targeted for elimination. Sherlock suppresses a grin. _Good._

“‘Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat’ is for Sherlock,” Molly instructs. 

Oh. John would have been much better suited to the colour work. Then again, that is likely the point of Molly’s choice, Sherlock assumes. She probably believes that the deep and warm colours will be a challenge for him to tattoo. She is not entirely wrong. 

“And ’The Kiss’ is for John,” Molly finishes.

That painting mostly consists of garish yellow. However, John could use the patterns to design... No, he cannot. This is replication, not artistry, Sherlock reminds himself. It is simply recreating what has been done before, abhorring any _shred_ of originality. 

“You have the rest of the afternoon to meet with your clients and to sketch,” Mike declares. 

Sherlock eyes his client - an older woman. He remembers the debacle with the snowy owl tattoo well enough, so he finds a smile and extends his hand as he approaches her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, I will be your artist.” He is careful when he questions, “Where do you want the tattoo to be placed?”

“I thought my leg, here on top?”

A meaty, well defined part of the body. Sherlock considers her. “That will work well, I believe.”

Sherlock captures an outline of the space he can use on the woman’s upper leg, provides instructions for tomorrow’s session, and then retreats to the table to look up the painting itself. 

_Van Gogh._ Sherlock quickly reviews what he knows of the man, but other than the basic facts, he knows little. He has never had any particular interest in his work – it is too broad, too undefined to be employed as a tattoo. On top of that, this particular image is so common-place that the Google searches display endless merchandise and posters. 

Tattooing brushstrokes is rather far outside of Sherlock’s usual repertoire as well. It is not impossible - he already used this technique to some extent in his trash polka tattoo. He only needs to repeat that process with greater detail and control. 

John, as always, spends longer with his client, nodding and listening. Eventually he does join them at the large table, and all four of them sketch together in cooperative silence. The time for joking has passed, Sherlock assumes. They are all focused on their designs and the techniques that will be necessary to tattoo them. 

When the cameras cease filming their preparations, they are dismissed to go back to the hotel. 

Sherlock gathers his various sketches, drawing materials, and his laptop. He follows John outside, alongside Molly and Janine. 

The rain has stopped, for now. Spring even seems to be in the air, with momentary sunshine brightening the wet pavement and the distant skyscrapers. But there are still heavy rainclouds near the edge of the sky. 

John’s cane hits the puddles while they make their way to the hotel. 

“This is a good challenge, isn’t it?” Molly offers, manoeuvring her steps around the worst of the pavement. “I love that painting.”

Yes, it is well within her skill set. It is not for the rest of them. 

“Not that into reproducing anything,” Janine says. 

For once, Sherlock is entirely in agreement. He tells Molly, “Little design is needed, but the application will be extremely difficult.” 

“Yeah, mine’s tricky, too.” John shares a look with him. 

Janine and Molly both join them in the restaurant. 

Sherlock feels some anxiety now. Part of him would want to suggest to John leaving dinner altogether and spending the rest of the evening in bed, exploring one another. Another part of him is deeply wary of this. John is still just as married as he was a couple of days ago. John has an infant daughter at home. 

None of them seem perturbed by his silence as Molly regales them all with the story of how her pet snake was lost in her tattoo shop and then found again coiled under her autoclave – entirely predictable. 

They eat, but Sherlock does not care about what he orders, or what is said. 

Instead his eye is drawn to John’s forearms. John has rolled up his sleeves slightly, and the tattoo work past his wrists is showing when he gestures. Sherlock’s gaze lingers on the small slivers of skin. He wishes to see the rest of him. Every tattoo of John’s. 

And every scar. 

 

-

 

After dinner concludes, Sherlock follows John up to his hotel room. John is silent, but his body speaks for him - Sherlock can deduce the meaning of his hurried steps. As well as the soft glow in his eyes. 

When they walk inside the room, John turns to him expectantly. He locks the door, places a warm hand on Sherlock’s lower back, and asks, “What do you fancy, then?” John’s gaze feels heated. 

_I wish to see you, John._ “May I observe your bodysuit?” 

“…Um.” John smiles oddly. 

Sherlock imagined that after John’s proposal to tell the story of how he was invalided – later, Sherlock needs to win a challenge to hear it - he was allowed to ask for this. Or perhaps not. Should he simply name a sexual act instead? 

“Right.” John seems uncertain, but he agrees before Sherlock can rescind his question. “Sure. Okay, yeah. Why not.” 

John removes his jumper. Then his shirt. 

It is a slow shedding of layers, and it is not particularly sexual, but Sherlock finds himself eager to see each bit of skin revealed. Each flash of ink as well, adding to the puzzle that is John in his mind. 

While John pulls his undershirt over his head, Sherlock runs his fingertips over John’s arm, upwards to his shoulder, then over his chest, inspecting the tattooed skin. He sees a Rod of Asclepius on John’s upper arm, and mirrored on the other side an army crest. Sherlock follows a traditional snake, twisted over John’s chest. He discerns realistic guns as well as scalpels. 

It is magnificent to be allowed to observe this closely. Sherlock’s fingers find the scarred, raised flesh of John’s gunshot wound and trace it. He feels fascinated by it - feeling it, and by John, doing this for him. Showing him parts of himself that he holds tightly reigned in whenever possible. 

There is a pocket watch right underneath John’s scarring, as if the two are tied together. Blood, whole streams of it tattooed coiled around John’s shoulder. Sherlock imagines John’s dreams to be like this - mutedly colourful and profoundly menacing at once. 

John turns around so Sherlock can see his back. There is a knight over John’s spine, wielding a shining sword. It seems small compared to the roaring dragon above him, the red lightly faded over John’s shoulder where the pigment has fallen out over his scarring. Sherlock wants to kiss it. To press his tongue there and taste the scar, the wild flesh, the pain. 

He does so hesitantly, in a slight brush of lips. 

“You tasting me now?” John breathes a laugh that isn’t entirely comfortable. 

No. Sherlock’s fingers leave John’s skin. The scarring speaks of impossible things, so does the tenseness of John’s shoulders. “This wound had difficulty healing.”

“An infection, yeah.” John turns to look at him, but his eyes seem distant. “It was hell. The hospital.”

Sherlock does not speak. There is nothing he can do to change what John has felt. What he still feels, every moment of every day. 

“Rehab, you?” John’s eyes focus on him.

“Yes. At various facilities.” The words crawl out of his chest like ants, but Sherlock speaks them regardless. “I overdosed multiple times. I attempted suicide, as well.”

John turns towards him and kisses him. 

Full, unhurried. A soft kiss. 

Sherlock deepens it, because he wants this. The touch. The distraction. 

John’s hand is already by Sherlock’s fly, opening his trousers. 

“Take your clothes off?” John lightly pulls Sherlock’s shirt. “Show me, too.” 

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt and leaves it on the floor. 

He can see John’s eyes busily flutter over his various geometrical tattoos while he undresses. Hidden within the decorative designs, there are structural chemical formulas. Sherlock used stereochemistry, projections, and conformations to build his chest piece. Heroin is in there. Cocaine as well, alongside various other substances. Does John recognise the chemical makeup? Sherlock wants him to. He wants to be seen as he is - every line he drew upon himself. Every dot of pain he carries with him. John can know it all. 

John removes his trousers and pants as well. He discards his socks last, and then they are naked together. 

They lie down on the white bedcovers. 

This close, John’s eyes are a universe of dotted planets. John kisses him again, so soft that something stutters in Sherlock’s chest. 

John’s touch makes him feel bare. Newly made in this moment. And old at the same time, weighed down with history, with mistakes and substances and horrid things that John does not need to see spilling out of him. Sherlock longs to taste, and touch, and to lose himself in the sensation. He kisses John and rubs his erection against his thigh. _Make me feel, John._

“Listen, I…” John breathes out in a huff. This close by, his eyes are blurred, and his voice is a low rumble against his chest. “I don’t have condoms. Or anything.” 

Neither does Sherlock. He did not prepare for this when he entered the competition. 

Sherlock looks towards his phone - currently residing inside his trousers on the floor. He sits up. “Eighteen minutes, approximately.” 

“What?” John tries to stop him when he exits the bed, even though he smiles. “Don’t - not right now. I meant…”

Sherlock is aware what John meant by raising the suggestion. But there might not be more than tonight. If they want to be certain of ever doing this at all, it needs to be now. Sherlock thumbs open his phone and selects a familiar number. 

It rings only once before it is answered. 

“ _Sherlock_.” There is a faint tremble of fear hidden underneath the smooth voice. He always fears the worst, Mycroft. Especially when Sherlock calls at night. 

“I need condoms - a brand recommended for anal sex - and lubricant to be delivered to my current location.” Sherlock glances toward the door. “Room five hundred and ten.” 

John looks at him in disbelief, a smile warring with his stunned expression. 

Mycroft takes a delicate breath on the other end of the line. “…I see.”

“Consider it my birthday present.” Sherlock eyes the curve of John’s stomach. He wants to tongue John’s navel. To place his teeth into the tattooed flesh there. 

“Your birthday was in January.” Mycroft reminds him, “I gave you a pair of Italian lambskin gloves, and you then employed various acidic substances to burn holes into them.” 

“Next year’s birthday, then.” Sherlock infuses just enough insistence into his voice that Mycroft knows he is serious. _Do it, Mycroft._

John shakes his head, but he is still smiling while listening to this. Good. 

“The situation is rather _pressing_ , I take it?” It is clear in Mycroft’s voice that he is somewhat amused by the request as well, now the instant fear of receiving a phone call from him has faded. 

Sherlock eyes John and the half-mast erection he sports. “I would say so, yes.”

“All right.” Mycroft takes a deep breath that manages to hover between deep-seated relief, and superficial annoyance that he disturbed him for this. He also loves it, Sherlock knows. Somewhere deep down Mycroft is entirely too happy to do this. “I will send a courier.” 

“Thanks.” Sherlock eyes John when he says, “Brother dear.” He flicks his phone off before he can hear Mycroft’s reply. 

“Wait, that was... your brother? You phoned _your brother?”_ John laughs. “Christ. Understanding bloke, is he?” 

Sherlock thinks back to the years of enforced rehabilitation. Years of Mycroft’s hard eyes, there because he disappointed him once again. Years of Mycroft tracking him down in alleys, dosshouses, and abandoned factories. Usually with a needle, sometimes with a gun to his head. Years of despising Mycroft for every interference, every obligatory drug test, every nuisance wrapped in a blanket of care. 

He doesn’t reply. 

“Well, then.” John looks at him with a mischievous expression dancing across his face. He seems so unburdened, like this. As if walking across the threshold allowed him to shed a decade of pain. “Guess we’ll have to wait.” 

Sherlock kneels on the bed, and John immediately rises to kiss him. Sherlock kisses back, lost in the swirling reality of it. 

While they are kissing, John’s hand traces over his back, his side, and then lower. He teasingly strokes a finger between Sherlock’s buttocks. His meaning is entirely clear. Sherlock can refuse still, but he has no intention to. 

Sherlock kisses John’s chest. He brushes his lips over John’s navel, then lightly bites his hipbones, until John laughs and pushes him away. Sherlock ignores John’s rising erection, even if it moves up and nearly hits him in the face. Instead he recommences kissing John’s slight belly while John strokes his hair, then experiments with wrapping the curls around his fingers and pulling. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock groans in approval. 

They are waiting, idly aroused together, and it is one of the best things Sherlock has ever felt. His entire body feels sensitised while they are lingering in this state purposefully, waiting for more. 

“Love this,” John says, somehow reading his thoughts. “I mean, it’s agony, but it’s…”

Sherlock lies close to John. John’s fingers gently massaging his scalp are a symphony of pleasure. John’s body feels warm in the cool room. Even though John has not touched him there, Sherlock’s erection is lying stiff against his stomach, throbbing achingly. 

“You good?” John asks it almost lazily, but for the timbre of expectation underneath his words. 

Good? Is this good? It is _exquisite_ , Sherlock thinks. It is suffering and silence, expectance and need. He glances at John. “I have never found waiting to be as pleasurable as this.” 

John laughs, flushed with the compliment, and Sherlock moves to busy himself with licking a slow trail down to John’s erection. John tenses underneath his touch. He twists and breathes heavily, then curses when Sherlock softly tongues the head. “ _Fuck_.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth and licks him agonisingly slowly. Moment by moment, he allows his mouth to be filled with John’s member, lower and lower until it fills his throat entirely, and his nose brushes John’s pubic hair and he smells the deep musk of him. 

“Mmm…” John’s hands curl through Sherlock’s hair and pull, hard, while he shifts and grumbles, “God, Sherlock…” 

They both start at the knock on the door. 

Sherlock jumps up - leaving John’s erection to bounce back onto his stomach, red, swollen and wet with spit - and moves to answer it. 

He is entirely naked and sporting an erection, but then the purpose of this was clear enough, Sherlock believes. He opens the door and simply extends an arm. 

A nameless assistant, dressed in a dark suit - MI5 at least, he suspects - hands him a Boots bag with the requested supplies. She stares at him, entirely unimpressed with having to run this errand at this time. “Anything else, sir?” 

“No, go away.” Sherlock closes the door on her. He is certain that word of his undressed state will find its way back to Mycroft, but he cannot bring himself to care. 

Sherlock walks over to the bed and to John’s smile. He empties the bag. He recognises the brand - it is good quality, at least. Trust Mycroft to select the best. Or the best that was available for purchase in the nearest Boots. 

“Good, good.” John grabs the lubricant and inspects it as well. Sherlock kneels on the bed next to him. 

But where he had expected it to proceed quickly now, a frenzied coupling similar to their other times, it does not happen. 

John turns to him, pulls him in, and kisses him again. Softly, lazily, as if he has all the time in the world. Sherlock can feel the arousal in John’s body - his breathing is strained, and his erection bobs up insistently against Sherlock’s thigh - but he does not hurry at all. John’s kisses are devastatingly slow, his tongue roams gently, and Sherlock knows that John believes this might be the last time as well. 

They both do. 

John looks at him as he uncaps the lubricant and squeezes a small amount onto his fingers. 

Sherlock nods, and John lowers his hand and presses between Sherlock’s buttocks once more. Sherlock’s skin feels overly sensitised there, and the first touch of John’s fingertips to his anus makes him twitch. Sherlock sucks in a breath and wills himself to relax. 

He bites his lip. Sherlock can feel himself tremble nearly undetectably while John stretches him. John kisses his shoulder while he does it, and then his mouth. Sherlock lies back and allows John to move his fingers inside of him with growing confidence.

They kiss gently, nips of lips, wet brushes of tongue.

“Okay?” John’s voice is hushed. 

Sherlock reaches for a condom and opens it with the nail of his thumb, then hands it to John. They have waited long enough. “Yes.”

“Right.” John glances down at their entangled legs with a flicker of uncertainty. Ah. John is not certain his leg can take this. 

Sherlock’s can. Easily. Gladly. He sits up. 

“Wanna top, do you?” John’s smile betrays some of his nerves as he lies back, unrolls the condom over his erection, and accepts Sherlock’s lead. 

Sherlock kneels over John’s hips, with one leg on each side, and eyes him. “Problem?”

“No.” John smiles, his eyes full of heat and something else, something that makes Sherlock’s heart thump. “No, not at all.” 

Sherlock holds John’s gaze while he takes John’s condom-slicked erection in his hand and slowly guides it between his buttocks. The initial stretch burns sharply, but the pain is irrelevant. As he sinks down over him, Sherlock observes every single movement of John’s, every change of his breathing, every twitch of his lips, everything he is doing to him. Sherlock wants to remember this. He wants to remember how he is shaking at the intrusion of this. Sherlock moves so slow that his leg muscles tremble. 

Then he finally sits down with his full weight over John’s hips. 

“Jesus.” John whispers.

He is right, it is what this feels like - divine. A moment that is too bright to exist. 

Sherlock takes a breath and slightly curls his back. He does not break eye contact for a moment as he slowly starts to ride John. 

“Aaahhh,” John groans. Sherlock feels a hot shiver gather inside of him. John is barely holding on, Sherlock can feel it. 

So is Sherlock, at this point. John’s erection hits his prostate, causing a deep wave of desire to roll over him. Sherlock repeats the movement, a low roll of his hips that is dizzyingly pleasurable. 

He sucks in a breath and tilts his head back. So _close_.

“Yes.” John wraps a hand around Sherlock’s erection. “Yes, come on.” 

Feeling John’s hand tighten there is nearly his undoing. Sherlock leans his weight forwards onto his hands and knees and moves his whole body over John’s like this. He is sweating. His hair falls into his eyes. His erection is thrusting into John’s hand while John is so hard inside of him, filling him completely. The heat is gathering in his fingertips, in his toes, in the curl of his lips. He cannot fight it back any longer. John thrusts inside of him, John’s fingers stroke him, and Sherlock shivers apart. He orgasms, his cock pushing out rope after rope of ejaculate, his arse clenching repeatedly over John’s cock. 

“Oh, hmm…” John grabs Sherlock’s hips and pulls him down hard onto his cock while he pushes upwards in fast, greedy thrusts. He groans, and then comes as well, gasping for breath, “ _Fuck_.”

John closes his eyes. His mouth is opened. He is breathing fast, wordlessly slain by his pleasure. 

Sherlock leans forward and allows John’s cock to slip out of him. He rolls to the side, and then moves off the bed. 

His legs are trembling so intensely it is difficult to stand, but he hurries. Sherlock enters the bathroom, seeing a flash of his own expression in the mirror. His face is flushed, and his hair stands up in a halo around his eyes. His lips are red and swollen. Sherlock cleans up efficiently and rapidly with a towel of John’s. He washes his hands with soap, then dries them and returns. 

John has sat up as well. He is removing the condom, careful not to spill the reservoir. He throws it in the bin. 

Sherlock moves past him, looking for his clothes. 

“Hey.” John reaches out and touches his hip. He looks up at him, something in his expression Sherlock can’t read. “Stay a bit? Please.”

...All right. Sherlock sits back down onto the bed. He obediently lies down when John pulls him close, feeling rather uncertain as to what that is meant to accomplish now. 

John pulls the covers over them both and then turns off the lights.

It _is_ somewhat pleasant to relax. Sherlock is fatigued, and he can feel the pleasure in allowing his spent body to lean next to John’s. They are nothing but sated and warm naked skin. 

Just for a moment. 

 

-

 

It is dark. 

Sherlock is still in John’s bed. He catalogues the light falling into the room, the faint noise of the cars outside, and determines the time - with a start - as being around seven in the morning. 

He fell asleep. For an entire night, apparently, which is such a rarity that Sherlock immediately racks his brain trying to find the sleepless hours he must have undoubtedly suffered lying here next to another human being. There are none. 

John is steadily breathing next to him. 

Sherlock cautiously pushes back the covers and crawls out of the bed. His inner thighs faintly protest the movement, seldom-used muscles aching. His upper back is stinging mildly as well - the skin is still sensitive there after being tattooed. Sherlock attempts to be entirely quiet while collecting his clothing and dressing. He needs to kneel and search under the bed to find his second shoe. 

In spite of Sherlock’s rustling and moving around the room, John’s breathing pattern remains unchanged.

Once he is fully dressed, Sherlock opens the door and pulls it closed behind him slowly so the lock doesn’t make a sound. ...Only to see Molly come down the corridor. 

“Um! _Sherlock_.” She comes to a sudden stop when she sees him. 

“Molly.” Sherlock acknowledges her and releases the door handle. He is not certain whether she knows this to be John’s room. 

“I was just...” Molly looks behind her in the corridor as she searches for an acceptable lie. 

There is no reason for her to be here at this hour, unless she came from someone else’s room as well. Clearly. Sherlock can see her recently painted nails - bright red - and detects a faint perfume lingering around her. He ventures a well-founded guess. “Irene?”

“No! I...” Molly takes a shaking breath. She seems to realise that she is too poor of a liar for this and looks at him imploringly. “ _Please_ don’t tell anyone.” 

It is surprising Sherlock didn’t realise it sooner. The newly complicated hairdo, the dress showing off her cleavage. But then Sherlock had been distracted. 

“It’s not… It’s not because I want to win. Or cheat!” Molly seems aghast at the suggestion. She continues in a hurried tone, “I just like her. I mean, she’s such a brilliant artist. I love her work, and just getting to talk to her…” 

Sherlock didn’t need to know this. He still doesn’t. He can simply ignore this information and Molly with it. 

She eyes him. “Do you think I’m being stupid?”

Ah, yes. The question of the day. Are they being utterly foolish, spending the night in someone else’s bed? Sherlock says, “If you were intending on winning through sleeping your way through the judges, then yes, it would be both deeply unintelligent and unrealistic.” 

“I know.” Molly appears distressed. “I know that, I really do. I mean, I signed that contract, if anyone finds out…” 

“ _However_ , Irene is a professional. She would not let her personal interest cloud her judging.” She had offered to ‘ride him like a pony’, once. Sherlock had told her he was uninterested. She’d never made an issue of it again. 

“You think so?” Molly seems anxious to hear him confirm it. 

“I do.” Sherlock looks around at the abandoned corridor. “Although you might consider departing her room at another hour.” He takes a breath. “Otherwise, you might run into others who are attempting a similar escape.” 

It takes her a moment. Then Molly adopts a startled expression. “You were with...” She looks at the door and whispers, “ _John?!”_

Sherlock faces her. _Trust for trust, Molly Hooper. One secret for another._ “I believe mutual silence can be agreed upon?”

“Yes!” Molly immediately assures him, “I won’t tell. Anyone. I promise, I...” 

“Good.” Sherlock moves to be on his way without waiting to hear more. 

There is drawing to be done.

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge

“Good morning, contestants.” 

Sherlock eyes John. He found him in the lobby already accompanied by both Molly and Janine, so they were not able to speak much. 

Not that Sherlock wished to. He still feels unease over the fact that he thoughtlessly fell asleep in John’s bed and remained there the entire night. If John is at all annoyed that Sherlock overstayed his welcome, he does not show it. 

“Today you will reproduce a famous piece of art as a tattoo.” 

But Sherlock cannot stop considering John and their night spent together. The bright sense of _belonging_ he felt when he… No. He cannot delude himself into believing this to be exceptional in any way.

He can’t possibly be that naive. 

“Your clients are here, and you have six hours to tattoo your works of art. Your time begins... now!” 

Sherlock nods towards his client and accompanies her to his partition of a shop. He attempts to appear kind. “Are you ready for this today?”

“Yes, for sure!” 

He is not. Sherlock did prepare extensively, of course. Despite the hours wasted _sleeping_ in John’s bed, he did have enough time to further detail his sketch this morning. But the application of the colour work will be entirely experimental in nature at this point. 

Sherlock applies the stencil and pours an entire row of brightly coloured inks. He selects his tattoo machine, turns towards the client, and warns, “First line.” 

He has had entanglements with other artists before. 

Nine years ago, Sherlock was struggling to be noticed in the London tattoo world. He was shooting up every night and tattooing every day, a man obsessed. So when Jim Moriarty sent him a message complimenting his work and hinting at them working together, Sherlock wanted it badly. 

One blowjob in a Costa bathroom later, Sherlock was offered Jim’s personal _tutelage_. 

Then dinner, an art show, and a series of hotel rooms he doesn’t remember much about except swallowing or injecting anything he was offered - GHB, Mephedrone, Meth - and Jim’s hands around his neck. There were other men, too. Beds crowded with bodies, smelling like sour sweat, dried come, and stale cigarettes. 

Sherlock never did actually work with Jim, seeing how he overdosed in one of those hotel rooms. 

He nearly died there. 

Sherlock lines the entire tattoo, then tells his client, “Break.” 

He goes over to John’s shop. Unnoticed, he observes John while he is working. 

John appears steady. The more pressure there is on his shoulders, the better he performs. John was made for this competition, for the challenge, to prove himself in a quiet, exquisite way. 

“Hey you.” John looks up from his work with a smile. 

Sherlock wants to feel John’s hands caress his skin again with an intensity that scares him. 

“John.” The word sticks in his throat.

“What do you think?” John moves back slightly so Sherlock can see what he is doing. It’s tidy work. Even if the image itself is overly bright, and the colour gaudy at best, it is a reproduction made with care.

“You need to induce the feeling of tenderness,” Sherlock hears himself say. “Of falling to your knees for a lover in awe.” 

John’s eyes linger on his for a moment. “Right, yeah.” He swallows. 

Sherlock can feel a tight whirl in his stomach, watching John like this. Sherlock wants him between his legs, inside of him, kissing him, the both of them entwined in every way possible. 

“Van Gogh cut off an ear, didn’t he?” John glances at him, then looks away. “That’s love for you.” 

_Love._ Sherlock’s eyes move over John’s face and try to commit it to memory. John’s lips. John’s _being_. “Ill-advisable. The removal of body parts.”

John grins. “Don’t need a present like that.” 

To prove his love? No. There is nothing he can do. Nothing. 

But it is a joke, and Sherlock nods. “Understood.” 

He returns to his work. He focuses on his client, who tells him about being an art school teacher for most of her life. While Sherlock listens, he works on the colours and making them appear as true to the painting as possible. His work needs to capture the vivid passion of Van Gogh, and Sherlock attempts to portray the deep, almost illusive insanity of emotion his every brushstroke carries. 

“Three, two, one... Tattoo machines down.”

Sherlock wipes the blood and excess ink off the tattoo and looks at what he has done. [His rendition of ‘Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat’ by Van Gogh](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhoyKNOl7B1/?taken-by=j.m.mee) looks warm, much more so than Sherlock’s work usually is. Full of deep sunlight, like the Provence afternoons his client mentioned. 

He allows her to stand and to look at it in the mirror. 

“Oh, wonderful!” She appears emotional. “It’s so beautiful, you really captured his spirit.” 

Sherlock nods, but he barely hears the praise. There is a tense edge of worry running in the back of his mind now. 

_John might be eliminated._ So could Sherlock. Their time together might be over sheer minutes from now. 

Sherlock stands back while the cameras film his client, and then wraps the tattoo so she can wear her trousers again. Sherlock says his goodbye and leaves towards John’s shop, only to see John still in conversation with his own gushing client. 

“Hi.” Molly sidles up to him. “You ready?”

“No.” Sherlock says it plainly. No, he is not ready for this. 

He shares a look with her. 

“It’s, yeah... I’m nervous, too.” Molly is only guessing at what he feels, but Sherlock forgives her the oversight. She can call it nerves if she wishes to. 

John finally says goodbye to his client and joins them, subtly wincing as he leans on his cane. He smiles. “Hiya.” 

The four of them gather at the tall chairs for judging. 

The judges appear onto the stage, Jim first among them, rocking his weight back and forth from the tips of his toes to his heels. Jim always was electric in his movements. Fast, vividly intelligent. Brutal, as well. But he has been dialling it down this entire competition. The man Sherlock sees before him right now, smiling into the camera, is not Jim Moriarty at all. He is playing a part, just as they all are. 

But old habits die hard. 

Sherlock remembers what lies beneath, just as Jim will always know what Sherlock would sink to for a hit. Sherlock can feel his disgust in every look, in every pore. They know too much of each other’s repugnance. 

Mike commences the judging, “Molly, let’s take a look at what you did.” 

On the screen, [Molly’s tattoo of ‘Dancers at the Barre’ by Degas](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhUgQ3sh_Mx/?taken-by=j.m.mee) appears. As Sherlock expected, Molly did excellent work. The lines are suitably hesitant, the colour choices soft and romantic. The imagery seems to float onto the skin, awash in feeling and symbolism. 

“How was this for you to tattoo, Molly?” Irene asks. 

“Oh, I loved it!” Molly smiles at Irene with amateurishly disguised familiarity. “I love this image. It’s so suggestive of movement and dance.” 

“You did a great job capturing the look of this painting,” Irene agrees.

“No.” Jim speaks up. “No, I think it’s missing _guts_. Anywhere there’s an outline on this painting is really heavy black, like tar. You didn’t dare to go there.” He pauses and looks at Irene. “Such a shame, Molly dear.” 

“You really need to punch in that black to make it strong,” Mike says diplomatically. “But the softness was perfect.” 

[John’s ‘The Kiss’ by Klimt](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bhve0PnF0uR/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown next. He did add the severe lines. Sherlock can feel the devotion in the faces as well. 

“This is such an iconic image.” Mike asks, “How did you find it, John?” 

“It was fine, yeah.” John says it with his habitual calm, even though his clenched jaw signals some tension. 

Sherlock can sympathise. He feels the moment roaring through him. 

“I do like it,” Irene says. “It’s clean work. But you didn’t alter the composition at all. You just gave us the whole thing, while I think you should have zoomed in on the faces.”

“I disagree,” Mike argues. “The whole point of this painting is the connection between the two figures, and that is what he tattooed. In keeping the composition, he made the choice to preserve that, and I think it’s a valid choice.” 

“I think it’s a safe tattoo. Again.” Jim’s teeth are reflecting the light. “Safe, safe, safe.” 

John wisely doesn’t reply. 

“Sherlock?” Irene asks, “Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat’ by Van Gogh. How did you find this to tattoo?”

Bright colour and broad brushstrokes, it is emotion turned into paint. Van Gogh’s work holds a delirious edge that lives in all of them. 

“Challenging.” Sherlock says. 

“Well, that’s a compliment coming from you.” Mike smiles, knowing what he said to be true. “You definitely got the brushstroke feel in there. That’s quite the technical application you used.” 

“For this painting to work, it needs to capture the warmth of the image. The palette, the feel, the direction. And I think you did that,” Irene says. “Well done.” 

“How pretty, Sherlock.” Jim smiles. “So warm. Full of _heart_.”

He is referring to John’s anatomical heart tattoo. Jim is undoubtedly clever enough to suspect their connection by now - if not know it for a fact - but Sherlock refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He can’t. 

“Janine, let’s look at your reproduction of a famous painting,” Mike says. 

[Janine’s ‘Witches Sabbath’ by Goya](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhehdVzFbGC/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown onto the screen. She did not attempt the entire painting, but focused on the centre image of the goat. 

“The devil...” Jim waggles his eyebrows. “How was that then, Janine?” 

“Great!” As always, Janine easily projects self-confidence. “Really fun, copying this.” 

Mike offers, “I don’t think you hit the right colour palette, or the contrast.” 

“The main thing about this painting is the dark, menacing figure in the centre,” Irene says. “Your tattoo looks light and happy instead. If you look at the mouth, the mouth of the goat curls down, and yours actually goes up, like he’s joking.” 

She is correct. The tattoo has a definite new school slant to it, alongside a certain sense of irony that Janine was unable or unwilling to leave out of her work.

“Too bad.” Jim winks. “I love me a good goat.” 

“Me too!” Janine laughs. 

Mike cuts in, “We have deliberated about the best tattoo of the day.” He turns towards both judges. “What do you think?” 

“Molly, if you would have gotten the colour in there stronger…” Irene seems genuinely apologetic, even though Sherlock can see no fault with Molly’s delicate colour work. “But my vote is for John, who made a faithful reproduction.”

Strange, considering she did not favour John’s choice of composition. 

“My vote is for... Sherlock.” Jim says it with light dancing in his eyes. 

Mike opens the piece of paper in his hand, then looks up and smiles. “Sherlock, your rendition of Van Gogh’s self-portrait was both beautiful and memorable. You are the winner.”

Sherlock feels a flicker of gratification. 

John gives him a look laced with pride and relief. John is glad for him, Sherlock realises, but mainly thankful for both of them. The feeling is mutual. 

“Now for the worst tattoo of the day.” Mike looks at all four of them. “It’s between Molly... and Janine.”

Janine sits up straight, but she holds her tongue and does not argue for once. 

Mike’s eyes fall on one person. “Molly. I am so sorry.”

“Oh.” Molly seems surprised. “Oh… Okay, I… Thank you. For having me here. It’s been so special. I…” She trails off as she starts to cry. “I... loved it. Being here.” 

Sherlock tunes out her words. _Molly_ is eliminated over Janine? It appears implausible. Molly’s talent has been proven over and over again. 

Except, of course... Sherlock considers Jim again. Unless this has been decided by the production team in advance, and not on any basis relating to tattoo work at all. If he wasn’t certain that the voting process is rigged before, he is now. 

“...gonna miss you around here,” John is telling Molly. 

“Should have been us two women in the final!” Janine claims. 

Sherlock stands. “It was an honour to work with you.” He leans in and places a small kiss onto Molly’s cheek. “Molly Hooper.”

Molly smiles a watery smile, clearly touched by the gesture, but there is no misunderstanding between them in what he meant. “Thank you, Sherlock. Good luck.” She quickly whispers, “I’m rooting for you.” 

Molly walks out of the studio with her head held high, still blinking away tears. 

Janine turns away first and heads towards the exit with a definite bounce in her step. Of course she would be pleased; she made it to the final. The three of them did. 

“Smoke?” John tilts his head towards the exit. 

Sherlock absolutely wishes to smoke with John, to stand there and let the daylight fade between them. But not yet. 

“I will meet you outside.” Sherlock walks off behind the stage. 

He has not been backstage previously, but the layout is easy enough to navigate. He lingers behind a corner when he hears Mike’s voice telling an assistant, “...enough for today. Say hi to the kids.” 

Sherlock counts the doors and opens the correct dressing room - only to meet Jim’s eyes in a large mirror. 

It affects him, even now. 

“Sherlock!” Jim theatrically turns around in his chair. “To what do I owe this little visit?”

“It’s rigged. The competition.” Sherlock does not need to say it to know it is true. 

Jim rolls his eyes. “OF COURSE it is.” He blows out a breath. “Did you ever doubt that? You always were such a young soul, Sherlock. So easily... swayed.”

Sherlock’s stomach tilts with the sickening memories that come with that voice. But it doesn’t matter, that is not why he’s here. “Who is winning the final?” 

“Oh.” Jim looks at him for a long moment with a smile that flirts around the corners of his mouth and grows as he grins widely. “Oh, this isn’t about you at all, is it?” 

Sherlock swallows away the bile at the back of his throat. _Fix it for me, Jim._ “What will it take?” 

Jim gasps and covers his mouth. “To change the outcome of the final?!” 

“Clearly.” 

“It _is_ ambitious, got to give you that.” As he looks him up and down, Jim’s expression changes to a hunger Sherlock recognises. “I _like_ it.” And then, Jim tells him. 

It is exactly what Sherlock expected it would be. 

Sherlock returns to the studio, feeling an odd sense of unevenness. There is no surprise here. He knew when he went in there what would be required of him, but he decided to do it anyway. 

John is waiting for him outside. 

He looks like home in the warm evening light. John smiles widely when he sees him walking up, and Sherlock strides closer and kisses him immediately. Sherlock captures his John’s and happiness, and he allows himself to feel how badly he truly wants this. How much he wishes to be touched, and held, and to see John’s eyes shine with joy. 

John smiles against his lips and mumbles, “Come on. Let’s go to mine. Get room service. We need to celebrate that win.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock glances at John. 

Forty-eight hours remain.

 

\---

 

_‘Redbeard’._

Sherlock is in his Baker Street tattoo studio, looking at the word that he tattooed on his ankle years ago. It was foolish to tattoo that on himself. A reminder of a half-remembered connection, that is all. 

Unlike then, he isn’t high now. Or drunk. Or in an altered state at all. Sherlock simply watched today’s episode, as he has been doing for weeks. 

He stares at his own skin. 

He doesn’t care about symbolism. Or about hidden lies, and half-truths. Tattoos need to reflect reality. They need to be painful. The needle is required to rip a person wide open and then leave behind the ink as a reminder of what they suffered. 

Sherlock’s tattoos are nothing but an intricate palace of mistakes he built around himself. 

It makes sense, then, that he would do this. 

Sherlock directs his machine closer to the pale skin just beneath his hip. The left side. His heart beats there, right under the thin and sensitive skin. His femoral artery. 

The needle hooks into his flesh, and Sherlock steadily breathes in and out. He tattoos the small letters slowly, treasuring every shiver of stinging pain. 

_‘John’._

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Artistry (John)

 

 

The shop Mike sent John to turns out to be an ugly and neglected shopfront in Bethnal Green. It has a door that sticks, paint peeling off the walls, and the smell of vintage clothing still heavy in the air even though the stock is long gone. 

John signs the paperwork on the spot. 

He spends a couple of days cleaning it all up, then sands and paints the walls himself. By the end of the week, every single muscle in John’s body is in agony and there’s paint permanently stuck in his hair, but at least he’s getting it done. 

He’s never had a shop of his own. 

Mary gives him a drawing Rosie did in nursery – just a tangle of multi-coloured lines – and John frames it and hangs it on his newly painted wall. First thing there. 

He rents a van, and with Mary’s help John loads up his tattooing bench and gear, his inks and his appointment books, as well as two bin bags worth of clothes, his army duffel bag, and his gun. 

He installs his tattooing bench and unpacks all of his equipment, and then, for the final touch, takes a step ladder out onto the street. John balances on it and uses a stencil to spray paint the logo he designed himself on a sign above the window. 

_John Watson. ADRENALINE TATTOO._

 

\---

 

Episode Seven

John wakes up in a sweaty tangle of sheets, entirely alone. _Again._

Sherlock is so good at the disappearing act it’s like he was never here at all. 

Except for the packet of condoms on the bedside table, of course. The uncapped bottle of lube. The dried come stuck to John’s pubes, the bruised bite marks by his groin, the throbbing pain in his leg – he tried to kneel for a while there last night. 

John sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. 

Sherlock knelt for him, too. Sherlock sucked him off until John couldn’t stand it anymore, until he was balling his fists and panting and hanging on by a thread. And _then_ Sherlock turned around and asked John to fuck him. He tried to draw it out as long as he could. John tried to feel everything possible in that one go, every sliver of feeling. 

It was breathtakingly good. 

All of it has been. Meeting Sherlock, getting to know him, sleeping with him. From the second they met, John couldn’t get enough - he wants to listen to Sherlock talk endlessly, to make him smile, to impress him. Or even just to be near him. John has never felt so right standing across from anyone in his life. 

But that doesn’t mean this is… 

Well, it’s got all the signs of a mid-life crisis, hasn’t it? Entering a competition and then suddenly fancying himself young and capable of anything. Capable of falling for someone new. 

John gets out of bed and hobbles over to the bathroom. He needs a shower. Painkillers, too, and a good hard look in the mirror. Then a call home to ask Mary how she is and to ask about Rosie. _Do your damn duty, Watson._

He texts her instead.

John isn’t sure whether the red hot feeling in his chest is shame. He _should_ be ashamed, he knows that much. But mainly he wants to get down to the lobby early enough that he can catch Sherlock alone. 

He takes the lift down to find Sherlock already waiting there, busily tapping on his phone. Sherlock looks up and meets his eyes in a bolt of blue. 

“Good morning, Doctor Watson.” 

John walks closer; aware he’s hooked on this - this feeling, whatever it is. There’s no getting away from it. John looks at Sherlock’s mouth as if his eyes are drawn there. “Morning.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are flickering over his lips too. 

“You wish to kiss me.” Sherlock’s voice is low, but it carries enough that it makes him shiver. 

“Yes,” John admits. Now that he knows what it feels like to greedily grab Sherlock’s hips and pull him in, or to reach up for Sherlock’s neck and guide him down, or to stroke Sherlock’s cheek and angle his face towards his... He can’t stop wanting it. 

But they don’t have time. There are production people all around, they’d notice. 

John can imagine asking Sherlock up to his room anyway. How they’d kiss, clothes ripped open, hotly grabbing each other’s cocks, _rushing_ for it. He’s a hairsbreadth away from offering - fuck today’s challenge - when Sherlock moves to go outside. 

“Smoke?” he asks. 

“Yes. Yeah,” John agrees. He’s right, of course. They have to go. “Sure.” 

It’s a bright morning. The cold and rain have finally cleared off again, but John barely notices it while he’s trying to talk some sense into himself. He needs perspective here. Priorities. 

Smoking doesn’t make it any better. John watches Sherlock’s lips close around a cigarette and feels a hot stab of frustration. Especially when Sherlock eyes him and _sucks_ , purposely. 

“God, you’re gonna kill me.” John turns away, stuck between a laugh and a cry. 

“Am I?” Sherlock is smiling. “I imagine that is prudent, getting rid of the competition.” He inhales slightly, then blows the smoke into John’s face on purpose. 

“Bastard.” John grins, awash in feeling.

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with pleasure. 

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge (Day One)

There are only three tall chairs left in front of the stage. 

“Weird, right?” Janine has taken the seat on the right. 

“It is, yeah.” John leaves his cane next to his chair - he’s gotten good at balancing it there – and sits down. 

Sherlock slides into the seat next to him silently. 

There’s a strange tension in the air. This is it. Why they came here. Why John did, too. This has become more than just a competition now - he’s gotten a taste of what it feels like to really push himself, and he wants to show what he can do. John glances to his side. Maybe he wants to show Sherlock what he can do most of all. 

The judges appear, along with Mike’s chipper, “Good morning contestants. Welcome to the final!” 

And they’re off. The last part of this thing. 

“For the next two days, the three of you will compete for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.” 

It never seemed all that real before. John didn’t think he’d ever come close to winning, but with a hundred thousand quid he could do a lot. Start his own shop, maybe. Tattoo only the designs he wants to tattoo. 

“There will be no flash challenge today,” Irene takes over. “You will have the full two days to work on your elimination tattoo, and to create an absolute masterpiece.” 

“…So it’d better be good.” Jim grins.

“You will have five hours to tattoo today, and seven hours tomorrow,” Mike instructs. “You each have a canvas who has their entire back available to you. They are open to any design, in any style. The choice is entirely up to you.”

Right. John glances at Sherlock just to _see_ the possibilities amass in Sherlock’s eyes. He looks like he’s thinking through everything he could possibly do in the time. Janine is smiling calculatingly as well. 

John’s got no idea what he’s going to do. 

“And Sherlock?” Mike looks at him. “Because you were the winner of the art elimination challenge, you can assign the canvasses.” 

Sherlock nods with some gravity. That’s a serious advantage right now and he seems to know it. He probably has a strategy of some kind in mind, John thinks. Knowing Sherlock, he has planned it all out in advance and he knows exactly what he’ll do. 

Three clients walk into the studio. The first is a young bloke with a bright green mohawk, thick glasses, and some Hindi facial tattoos. Then a young woman in a fifties dress with a beautiful pinup on her leg. The last is an older man, bald, with two full Oriental arm sleeves.

Sherlock walks up to them, but he doesn’t ask them anything. Instead he studies them, a small frown on his forehead, while the clients awkwardly shift their weight from foot to foot. 

“...You can ask questions,” Mike reminds Sherlock with an indulgent tone. 

“No need.” Sherlock sounds haughty as hell.

The clients must think he’s weird, but it’s pretty hilarious, John thinks.

“You are working with Janine.” Sherlock addresses the younger bloke first. He then points at the woman, who looks somewhat taken aback. “I am choosing you.” And then at the older man. “And you are with John.” 

The man nods at him, and John nods back. Fine, yeah. He seems all right. 

“You will have all morning to meet with your clients and sketch,” Mike tells them. 

Sherlock solemnly shakes the hand of his girl. Janine comments on her client’s face tattoos with an interested smile, and John walks up to his client and shakes his hand as well. “Hiya.”

They all guide their clients to their various shops, but it’s nothing like the mayhem the first challenges were. Three artists in a space this big are barely noticeable – once they’re in his shop, John can’t even hear Sherlock’s voice, or see much of Janine. 

John focuses on his client. “You mind showing me your back?” 

Despite his age, this bloke’s got fairly good skin. Did Sherlock see that? He’s pale, without a lot of sun damage. 

John takes a huge sheet of paper and routinely outlines the available space while he thinks about what the hell he’s going to tattoo. There’s no way he can do a full back piece on this bloke in twelve hours. Not old school for sure. Maybe Janine can splash some watercolour on there and call it a back piece, but with old school there’s heavy coverage, deep blacks and colour – to do this right would take at least twenty, if not more hours. John has done back pieces with over forty hours of work in there. 

After getting an idea of the space available, there’s nothing more to ask the client, considering they’re free to design whatever they want. John shakes the man’s hand goodbye - they’re coming back at two - and then that’s it. 

He’s sitting there, holding a huge sheet of paper. 

John can see Janine collect her tablet, newspapers, and a collection of paints, and bring it all to the large table in the middle of the studio. 

“Finally, right?” She directs at Sherlock while she ties up her hair with a red bandana around her head. “I’ve had this tattoo in mind since day one.” 

“I have been considering my design as well.” Sherlock strides over, carrying what looks like a pile of technical drawing tools – John sees rulers, a protractor, a compass, and even adjustable set squares. Sherlock sits down on the studio floor and spreads out all of his equipment in a radius around him. 

John could join them, but… 

He needs a think. 

His leg is protesting at every step but he doesn’t care right now - John walks out of the studio and through the familiar doors, his cane tapping on the floor as he makes his escape.

It’s dead quiet outside. No one is here now the judges announcing the challenge has been filmed and the clients are gone. John walks a slow circle around the building, not sure what he’s doing. 

His eye falls onto the low wall where he found Sherlock napping after one of the first challenges, so he walks to it and sits down.

He breathes for a bit. The air carries some cool wind from the water, but the sun’s heating up. John’s never been here much, by the docks. It’s not even that far from where he lives, but it’s not… He never thinks about doing stuff like this. Going out just to be outside. They’ve always got something on, especially now Rosie’s here. 

Sherlock was lying down here back then, with his eyes closed – John remembers it well. 

John can still feel the shape of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth from last night too. The weight of him on his tongue. The taste of him, the smell, the needy feeling of sucking him. He would like to go over there and... 

Right - focus. John looks around. He assumed the last challenge would be an assignment of some kind. A style he had barely heard of again, or something with weird guidelines. But this? 

A masterpiece. Easier said than done, that. 

In the very first challenge they had free rein too. John did [an anchor and roses](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdaCYKUAF-w/?taken-by=j.m.mee) on the pigskin then. He could do that again, something like that but bigger, some traditional old school piece, done by the book. It is what he would have chosen to do two weeks ago, for sure. But it doesn’t really appeal all that much to him today. Not for this. 

He tries to think back to what else he’s done. [A gypsy head](https://www.instagram.com/p/BedZp7ThdA_/?taken-by=j.m.mee), then the space cover-up, that wasn’t all that good. The [gun pin up](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfL4Gm6hd_m/?taken-by=j.m.mee) John enjoyed a lot more. Then the [snake](https://www.instagram.com/p/BgHFB41F3pk/?taken-by=j.m.mee) – he spent more time drawing that damn boa constrictor than he’s ever spent on any drawing, but it was good, in the end. The trash polka face, then the Thai tattoo, and the Gustav Klimt copy. 

And the heart, of course. The anatomically correct heart between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. 

Last night, while he was fucking Sherlock, John saw nothing but that heart on Sherlock’s pale back, etched into his skin over the knots of his spine. John wanted to kiss it. Lick it, bite it - John feels a throb of heat even thinking of it.

It’s his favourite thing he’s done here by far. 

He won with it, too. It was simple, and clean. Steady linework. John can feel an idea take shape - he could go big with that style, because he can run his machine fast and steady, he’s better at speed than Sherlock is, and more precise than Janine. 

It would be a risk to go illustrative, but John can’t see the fault in that. He wants to. He wants to be that artist. 

He takes another minute to get it all in order in his mind, then he uses his cane to stand up with a whine of pain and goes back. 

When John walks into the studio, Sherlock looks up from his work. No matter how focused he was, Sherlock still noticed that he left, John knows. He smiles to show that he’s good – got an idea now. 

Sherlock nods back, then focuses on his own stuff again. 

John collects his laptop and sketch pad, sits down at the table on the other end of Janine’s paint project, and figures out what to Google. Anatomy again? It does lend itself well to that style, plus Sherlock would geek out over it, John knows. 

He finds what he needs easily enough, there are plenty of old medical textbook illustrations online he could base his design on. They all have tons of detail, though. Each wobble would show in a tattoo like that, each hesitation, every single mistake. Colour work is much more forgiving. So is old school, with the thicker lines. But the more he looks at it, the more John’s sure. This is what he’s going to do. 

Sherlock walks over at a certain point, looks over his shoulder, and hums. “Anatomy. Not traditional old school.” 

“Yeah.” John looks up. “Not traditional old school.” He slides over [one of his initial sketches](https://www.instagram.com/p/BiucO6ZFXyB/?taken-by=j.m.mee). John’s nowhere near as talented at drawing as Sherlock is, but... 

“A skull?” Sherlock sounds fascinated. “Anatomically correct.” 

It feels like a victory already to look at him and say, “Thought I’d do several, actually.” 

Sherlock’s answering smile is enough to want to _thrill_ him. 

Sherlock goes back to working on his project, and John starts sketching out various perspectives on skulls. Does he want a straight-on skull, or a side view, or a jawbone separately? He debates adding the musculature, as well. 

The morning passes quickly. 

A stretch of time later, an assistant already brings trays of food for them. “Time for lunch, everyone.”

John looks at Sherlock. He’s still sitting on the floor, bent over his work - he likely didn’t even hear the announcement. He’s definitely not going to stop, so John takes a sarnie and a cuppa and brings it over to him. 

“What are you up to, then?” John hadn’t wanted to disturb him, but he is curious to see what Sherlock has chosen as well. 

Sherlock spreads out the giant piece of paper and shows him. “Observe.” 

Observe? Right. John puts the sandwich and tea down for him and looks at the design. 

It’s got a lot of lines and little squares. They interconnect with delicate, beautiful fine line work, but below is that structure, and John’s eye comes back to that. It kind of reminds him of Sherlock’s own chest piece actually, it’s the same style. But it’s more than that, these aren’t random patterns, it’s… “Chemical makeup. Those are chemical formulas!”

Sherlock grins at him proudly. 

“Serotonin.” John looks closer and tries to recognise them. “Testosterone.” And… at the top corner, behind the heart, “Adrenaline.” He checks with Sherlock. 

“Yes.” Sherlock adds, “Also norepinephrine, dopamine, and oxytocin.” He glances at him. 

It is amazing. It really is. The way he combined it all together, the artistry, plus the sheer scale of the whole thing. “You’re doing her entire back, aren’t you? Full back piece?” 

“Hm.” Sherlock nods. 

“You being ambitious over there, Sherlock?” Janine calls out. She has a smudge of paint on her cheek, but she does not seem to care one bit. 

They go over to have a look at her work as well. Janine has a picture up on her ipad of a young woman with a headscarf, and then her painting is of the same image, but in the brightest possible colours. 

“Malala Yousafzai,” she says. 

“A pop art inspired new school portrait.” Sherlock inspects it closely. 

“Yes!” Janine has that light in her eyes that John’s seen before when she talks about art. “The posture is derivative of Rosie the Riveter obviously, the text and the colouring somewhat Lichtenstein, combined with more modern influences. Plus Malala – she’s Pakistani like myself, and tattooing is activism. All art should be.” 

Sherlock nods. “Well chosen style, it will work within your capabilities. As well as an interesting subject.” 

“Yes, yeah. Good that.” John doesn’t really know what else to say. 

They all end up working straight through lunch. John eats while he sketches, taking a bite out of his sandwich with one hand, pencil in the other. 

Janine is the first to finish and to go print off her final stencil, but John ends up with five and he needs all the detail in his, the more the better. He can’t go improvising lines in the middle of tattooing, not on this. 

Sherlock seems to be making several stencils as well that he’ll then put together like a puzzle. He probably added in space to allow for the natural curves of the back, John thinks, there’s a lot of adjusting in terms of body shape when it comes to geometrical tattooing. It’s a proper headache actually; it all needs to fit perfectly. John doesn’t envy him. 

When Sherlock passes by, hurrying towards the printer, John offers, “Cigarette before we start?” 

Sherlock hesitates. He’s still working. They really don’t have to if he’s too busy. “Ten to.” 

“All right.” John focuses on his own sketches again. 

He could do with a break really. His leg’s aching from sitting on the chair. John can’t imagine what it’d be like if he had sat on the floor like Sherlock all morning. He wouldn’t be able to _walk_.

John draws right until it’s time to go, then looks up to see Sherlock already packing up his stuff. 

They move to the exit together. 

When John’s side brushes against Sherlock’s, John looks at Sherlock, feeling a throb of warmth for him. For this incredible person, this brilliant artist. Jesus, he’s so clever. And John will have him in his bed tonight. 

At least until he sneaks out again, anyway. 

They halt just outside the studio doors, and Sherlock lights a cigarette for himself, then hands one along with the lighter to John. 

John breathes, then pushes the words out. “Stay? Tonight. The whole night.” 

“...You _want_ me to stay until morning.” Sherlock eyes him like he was speaking a foreign language. 

Maybe it’s not fair on Sherlock to ask something like that. They’re competing tomorrow. It’s the final. It’s not like they can cuddle away the night. John amends, “Whatever you want.”

“I want to.” Sherlock speaks quickly. 

“Right.” John smiles at Sherlock’s instant reply. “Right then, well.” He looks at Sherlock and lingers in his eyes. “That’s settled.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock seems so solemn John wants to kiss the carefulness off his lips again. He wants to shake him, tell him, let him know that... What? What is he going to say? That it’ll all be okay as long as they’re together? 

That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. 

Half a cigarette later, John asks, “You ready for this tattoo then?” 

“Naturally.” Sherlock seems sure. He has never wavered on his artistic ability, John knows that. It’s John himself who’s going to have to tattoo better than he’s ever done. 

They go back in. 

 

-

 

Their clients are already waiting in the studio, ready to start their back pieces. Mike wastes no time and says, “Contestants, your five hours start... Now!” 

John motions his client closer. “I just have to print the stencils, and then we’re good to go.” 

This is going to be a marathon. John is planning to tattoo each piece separately, skull by skull. It’ll be like composing five entirely separate tattoos, instead of one piece like Janine and Sherlock are doing. But his client has the oldest skin, and John really needs to be careful in terms of trauma - bruising, blow-outs, swelling, even tearing the skin is a real danger here - so it’ll be easier if he doesn’t have to tattoo over the same spots again tomorrow.

John spends some time placing his stencil onto the back, making sure it works with the space available. And then he asks the client to lie down, pours his inks, and assembles his triple-coiled machine. 

Time to start this tattoo. 

Outlining a skull is detailed work, but without any colour gradients or graywash it’s fairly straightforward as well. John has tattooed for thousands upon thousands of hours by now, and it’s a comfortable process to sink into. The buzz of the machine in his hand, the bright lights, his whole world sinks down to just this stencil. Line by line. 

John’s thoughts drift off. 

To Sherlock, of course. Asking him to stay tonight, was that stupid? 

Sherlock’s amazing in bed. Judging by how incredible it feels when they move together, Sherlock has a lot more experience at all of this than John does. And why wouldn’t he - Sherlock’s a single gay bloke. Why wouldn’t he fuck around, right? 

John imagines Sherlock in dance clubs and gay bars after this. Finally free to go out again, on the prowl, scoring some hot young thing instead of having to spend the night next to John’s middle aged arse.

It stings, thinking that. 

Two hours in, John takes a break. He makes his way over to hear Sherlock talk to his client over the buzzing of his machine, “…any boyfriend exhibiting such behaviour is certainly not worth your time.” 

John can feel _that_ sting, too. He knows it’s not about him, but it is what Sherlock thinks, probably. John’s not worth the hassle, after this. He’s a decent distraction, but that’s all. 

“Chatting about men, are you?” It comes out harsher than he wanted it to. 

“A situational comment.” Sherlock is not giving anything more away, but his client smiles. She’s clearly at ease with him. 

It reminds John again that Sherlock _is_ out. He is gay, and he doesn’t hide it. He’s out there chatting to his client about boyfriends like he does it every day. And maybe he does. John doesn’t know. 

John stares at Sherlock’s work – large guiding lines, sprawling over the client’s back, ready to divide off into smaller squares later. He watches Sherlock’s hand deftly guiding the machine. 

Instead of getting into it, John goes off again and gets back to work. He needs to worry about his tattoo and pulling the right lines, nothing else. 

John tattoos fast and steady for the next hour or so. He’s not rushing, but he’s getting that ink in there solid. 

It gets harder for his client to endure around the ribs. John can see goose bumps appear on his skin in response to the pain, even though he’s clearly trying to be stoic. John takes a page from Sherlock’s book and attempts to distract him by chatting, aware he’s barely said two words to the man. “What do you do then?” 

“I am a retired Major of the Royal Marines.”

Of course he is. Of course Sherlock gave him the bloody veteran. 

John stays silent, but now he’s done it, because the client nods in the direction of John’s cane, leaned against the wall, and asks, “You saw some action?” 

“Got shot,” John says. “Afghanistan.”

He has never managed to make a neat little story out of it. He has never found the right tone, the right sense of restrained bravery needed so people say they’re sorry and then he can smile and it’s all fine again. Instead, there’s always a tense pause. 

The client doesn’t ask any further. Good. John’s not in the mood for it. 

There’s nothing right about a body being ripped apart - he pissed and shit himself, does this bloke want to know that? John blacked out and came to several times, hearing a loud wailing, then realising it was his own voice. 

He still hears it in his nightmares. 

Afterwards was worse, knowing he’d never come back from it. Not really. Then London, dull, grey London, loneliness and uselessness wrapped in one nice blanket of disability. 

John thinks of what Mike did for him then. Tattooing gave him a reason to get up in the morning. 

It was the only reason he lived on. 

That’s why John’s doing this, all of it. He built a _life_ after getting shot. He’s here for Mike, for Mary, for Rosie, for everything he became after. For everything he’s supposed to be. He’s making a name for himself with this, he can do better at the shop, he can get them out of debt, he can…

“It’s a straight line, go over it in one pass.” Sherlock comes over, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

John does as Sherlock instructed and follows the entire line with his machine, pulling it in one go without a single hesitation. Then he looks up to see Sherlock’s eyes quickly scan his progress. 

He takes a breath and asks, “How you doing then?” 

“My preferred style holds little difficulty for me.” Sherlock seems confident in his work. As he should be, it seemed like he was doing well. 

But there’s something though, something in the way Sherlock looks him over… if he didn’t know better, John would think Sherlock took a break just to check up on him. To know he was all right. 

Sherlock nods and leaves again, but John’s whole body feels more present. He’s here. Right now. John tattoos on with a steady hand. 

It’s his life, this. Med school, army tents, grinning boys and men and scars and sadness. John made the choices he could make. He did what seemed right at the time. He always has. 

John works on. _Steady, calm, do what you can today._ Thirty minutes to go. Ten. 

He is still working, aware that today’s time is nearly over but determined to make the most of it, when Mike’s voice sounds out, “Three, two, one... Artists, finish for the day!”

John stops his machine. He cleans off the bleeding skin - red and swollen from all these hours of tattooing - and helps his client up. He spends some minutes wrapping the fresh tattoo, and then cleaning off his tattooing bench and disassembling his machine before finding Sherlock again. 

Sherlock is still cleaning up his shop as well. John walks past Sherlock’s client on her way out and says, “You gave me a veteran on purpose.” 

“High pain tolerance, even toned skin. You can handle the age factor.” Sherlock eyes him. “Not good?” 

“No, he…” He sat well. John can’t complain about Sherlock’s choice. “He’s fine.” 

Can’t be upset at that, can he? John’s been back from Afghanistan for years, it’s about time he moves past it. Plus, Sherlock meant well.  
“Why’d you take the girl, then?” John tries to grin. “Besides to talk about men?” 

“Simple.” Sherlock eyes him. “She had the smallest back.” 

John laughs, not entirely sure it’s a joke, until Sherlock smiles back mildly.

They start walking out together. Janine’s still talking to her client, their laughter ringing through the studio, so they get to eat alone for once. Last evening. John tries not to think about it too much. 

They go sit in the restaurant, and it’s easy, the way they move together and talk, relaxed. But there’s nothing easy about what lies beneath all of this. 

In the middle of dinner, Sherlock is speaking about Janine’s tattoo, claiming, “The subject will be received well, I imagine.”

“You sure? A lot of UKIP voters in this country.” John’s not sure it was the best move for her, really. 

“I believe Janine is aware of that.” Sherlock has a small smile. “And so is her client.” 

John says, stupidly, “Mary would like it, too.” 

There’s a second of silence, and suddenly he can feel all of the tension fall back onto his shoulders. Christ, Mary. John looks down at the table. 

“Your wife is a new school artist,” Sherlock offers it cautiously.

Sherlock seems willing to talk about her, but John can’t. He can’t do this, he can’t say Mary’s name, he can’t... 

“Want to go up?” John stands up brusquely, leaving Sherlock little choice. But why not. They both know what they’re doing here, don’t they? Fucking for a bit, then leaving it. It’s as simple as that. 

They leave their food mostly uneaten, and the drinks still full, but John doesn’t care. He knows Sherlock doesn’t, either. None of that matters, none of the pretence. John just wants to feel Sherlock’s body next to his own. That’s what he wants to do with every single hour of this last night. 

They stand close in the lift. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s shape next to him, and every part of him feels like it’s burning – guilt, shame, lust, he’s not even sure any more. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

John walks through the corridor with Sherlock right on his heels. He opens the door, closes it behind them both, turns the lock, and then looks at Sherlock and does what he’s been longing to do all day - he pulls Sherlock’s head down and kisses him. 

He wanted to build it up, to start out slow, but Sherlock answers him by grabbing him harder, by kissing him needily, achingly intense. Sherlock kisses like he wants to crawl inside of his skin and John replies in kind, but it’s not enough, it’s never, it’s not going to be… enough. 

John pulls back a little. Sherlock’s eyes are like a stormy sea. 

They both know it’s the last night. _Last chance._

Sherlock takes a shivering breath, and John rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s, then finds his lips again, and kisses him deeply, full of everything he can’t say. 

Sherlock starts on his shirt buttons, so John pulls at his own shirt as well. He wants to feel Sherlock, to see him naked, to hold him close. While they strip, John gazes at Sherlock and tries to memorise him just like he is now. His stunningly intricate tattoos, his body, all of him. 

“You’re staring,” Sherlock says. He has that little frown again, as if he doesn’t quite get why John would do that. 

John tries to smile away whatever is constricting his throat, whatever he’s feeling, because that doesn’t matter right now. “Well, you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock looks at him. “I don’t require… compliments.” 

“Why, ‘cause you’re already naked?” 

“Indeed.” Sherlock smiles lightly. “You do not have to talk me into bed, John. I am already here.” 

“I am allowed to enjoy the view though.” John exaggerates his look up and down. “And I do.” He hopes Sherlock knows that. John’s heart thuds just watching him like this. The slight blush. The redness to those clever lips.

But it’s more than that. It’s about who Sherlock is. It’s about who John can be when he’s here with him. 

John always thought it was easier to go along with the idea people had of him. Straight. Soldier, doctor, tattoo artist, they’re all the best covers, the best hideaways so no one sees... 

John touches Sherlock’s cock with his fingertips. 

The skin is velvety soft, and John brushes there gently, just feeling the texture while looking downwards at his hand as he strokes him. He wants, God, too much. All of it. 

“Top tonight?” John surprises himself by asking.

He has done it before. Mary owns a few toys, and John’s tried them when she wasn’t around. Sneakily wanking himself crazy with one in his arse, feeling a burn of shame and then coming until he saw stars. 

He asked James, too, back in the day. A few times. 

Not often. 

If Sherlock’s taken aback at all, his tone doesn’t betray it. He says, his voice reverberating lowly, “Yes.” 

John closes his fist around Sherlock’s cock and starts pulling him off in earnest, but Sherlock draws him into a kiss that feels so sincere John can feel his toes curl. 

They sink onto the bed together, limbs tangling, kissing lazily. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his shoulder, the middle of his back, then a quick kiss to his ear that makes John smile.

Now he’s said it, he wants to get on with it. John reaches up to the side table and finds the lube - he’s doing this himself. Sherlock doesn’t comment when John lies flat on his back and reaches down. He applies the lube, pushes in with one finger and spreads it around, then adds a second finger and widens them in a scissoring motion. It’s easy. Practiced. Medical standard. 

It is different doing this knowing Sherlock is watching though.

Sherlock must have slept with dozens of men who just lube it up and go for it. Instead, John needs time to even do this. He feels exposed, prepping himself like this.

John is embarrassing himself, that’s what he is doing. He tells Sherlock, “This can’t be all that hot for you.” 

“It is… pleasing to witness.” Sherlock’s voice wavers, and John looks at him. Sherlock’s eyes are trained on him while Sherlock’s hand wraps around his cock, and he gives himself a slow stroke. 

John dribbles more lube onto his fingers, and then pushes back in. He uses three fingers, like it’s Sherlock’s cock. Then four. All he needs is a bit more and he’s ready. As he moves them, he can hear himself, the sloppy, wet sound. 

John can feel his face heat up as Sherlock leans over to watch. He can feel him breathing onto his cock, and it’s making him mildly dizzy. 

It’s even worse when Sherlock captures his cock between his lips and gently licks him.

“Jesus, come on, that’s enough!” John pulls his fingers out, impatient now. 

But Sherlock takes a moment finding and opening a condom. Then he moves John’s leg a little so it is more supported. _Then_ he grabs the other pillow and hands it over and John quickly pushes it under his arse. “Come on!” 

“Patience, John.” Sherlock smiles, but he doesn’t draw it out any further. He leans between John’s legs, and there’s the pressure of Sherlock’s slippery cock at John’s arse. He needs to push quite hard, but then the muscle lets him in. 

John breathes out slowly. Fuck. He’d forgotten what this is like. It feels more intrusive than John’s fingers did. Different than any of the dildos as well, it’s big. _Breathe._

Sherlock groans next to his ear. 

John’s erection is waning. He can feel sweat pearl up on his forehead. The feeling starts from the inside now, filling him with an endless pressure. 

A few more breaths, and Sherlock pulls back slightly, then thrusts in again. He is going slow and careful, getting him used to it. It’s doable, but not much more than that. 

John remembers doing this on his stomach with James over him. Or on his knees, too. He should turn around, but he can’t, not anymore. Or not without pain, anyway. Yet another thing that doesn’t work the same way without a _decent fucking leg_. John sighs. 

Sherlock slows his movements. He looks at him critically, then takes John’s good leg and pushes it up to bend against John’s stomach. John’s willing to go along with it, although he doesn’t quite see the point. Then he changes his angle and - 

“Hn!” John sucks in a sharp breath. That’s it. Right there. 

Sherlock repeats the movement but slower, more controlled. “Yes?” 

“ _Yes_.” John breathes. _Yes, whatever you’re doing, yes, bloody..._

Sherlock obeys and moves just like that, in slow, deep thrusts. John closes his eyes. He can feel rushes of goose bumps appear all over his skin. It’s not even his cock, it’s all of him, a full-body sensation of pressure, John can barely breathe with how good it is.

Then Sherlock picks up the pace. He is building a rhythm, faster, deeper, until he’s taking him in bright slaps, _fucking him_ , oh, the sound…

“Ah!” John cries out unwillingly. 

He meets Sherlock’s eyes with a stab of shame. 

“You enjoy this.” Sherlock’s breathless voice has never sounded so proud. 

Does he? Yes, no, all of it. John’s everything right now, all of him throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock is giving him small, teasing thrusts, looking for a reaction before he’ll continue, but John can’t admit to... He quickly says, “I do, yeah.” 

“Good.” Sherlock smiles, something genuinely relieved in his face for a moment, then he starts fucking him again in earnest. 

John’s head falls back into the pillow. Christ. He feels wave after wave of pleasure as Sherlock breaches him. Sherlock touches his cock and starts pulling him off in time with his thrusts, and it’s so good, so right, John can barely hold on and feel it all. He looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes, razor-sharp even like this, all of his attention on him. 

“Come here.” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him in. Sherlock leans more of his weight on top of him, while he rocks back and forth inside of him still, and John closes his eyes. They’re close, forehead to forehead. 

Their breaths are heavy between them. 

John captures Sherlock’s mouth, and they kiss. They’re both damp with sweat, heat is radiating between them, Sherlock’s hip bones are bruising the inside of John’s legs but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t mind about any of it because it feels like an endless moment, a haze of pleasure. 

When Sherlock hits his prostate again, sparks fly behind John’s eyelids and he moans into Sherlock’s mouth. Please. _Please._

“John…” Sherlock’s hips stutter a little as he pushes back in, he’s clearly trying to keep from coming. 

John sees him up close, eyes hazy, both their mouths opened, breathing each other’s breaths. He moves his hips up so his cock pushes against Sherlock’s stomach. 

He does it again, pushing his hips up, desperate for it. 

“Ah.” Sherlock shudders and pulls out nearly all the way, then thrusts in again.

“Hmmm…” John grabs Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock presses up against his prostate, and all of him seems to waver, he’s so bright, so near. “Like that,” John breathes and then bites his own lip, needing the sting of pain so he can hold on. 

Sherlock leans on his arms for leverage, then starts fucking him with quick snaps of his hips again, and Jesus, John can feel that. He starts shaking. 

“Yes …” John pulls Sherlock over him; he grabs his arse and pulls him in, more, more. 

Sherlock looks at him, eyes wide in silent pleasure, his chest heaving. Then he shudders and suddenly stills as he comes - John can feel him pulse inside of him. 

John’s so close too. Sherlock reaches between them to pull John off, and he starts moving his hips again and keeps on fucking him with his spent cock. It doesn’t take much at all. John’s eyes roll back into his head as a wave of unstoppable pleasure builds within him and he comes, arse spasming around Sherlock’s cock. 

It’s pure bliss.

John comes down to feel the weight of Sherlock on top of him, skin stuck together with sweat, both of them breathing as one. John tilts his face and kisses him - wet, open-mouthed kisses, lazy and desperate at once. 

Then Sherlock slips out of him. The bed moves, and he rolls away. 

John lets him. He’s too sated to move. He’s a mess of lube and come and he feels like he’s sinking into the mattress with that orgasm. 

He barely registers it when Sherlock returns to lie down next to him. His tired limbs are feeling heavy, now. John wraps an arm over Sherlock’s stomach and pulls him close. He leans into him and finds sleep. 

 

-

 

John blearily opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking back at him. The room is filled with sharp light. 

“Hi you.” John’s voice breaks. 

“Doctor.” Sherlock smiles lightly. 

It feels like the best possible way to wake up. Oh, sure, John’s bladder is full, he’s in desperate need of a shower and his leg is already promising a world of hurt. But this... He rolls closer, and Sherlock hesitantly opens his arms. John leans his cheek to the side of Sherlock’s neck and drifts back into almost-sleep. 

John can smell Sherlock this close. Sour sweat, sex, the musk of his body, the scent of cigarettes in his hair, a hint of disinfectant around his hands. John breathes him in selfishly. One breath. One more. 

It’s late already. John’s aware of it like he knows his own body - they have a limited amount of time left. Just moments before they have to get themselves together and face it all. 

But not yet. He leans against Sherlock’s shoulder and kisses the skin there. Lazily. Softly. Sherlock’s hands grip John just as tightly. 

They hold on. 

Eventually, John can’t stand the pressure in his bladder any longer. He sits up. “Sorry. Got to.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock reaches under the other side of the bed and hands him his cane. His curls are a mess in the morning. Seeing that almost makes John smile. Almost. 

John stumbles to the bathroom, pees, and swallows a few painkillers, aware it’s the first goodbye of today, this. 

When he looks back into the room, Sherlock is getting dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Sherlock wears his shirt, hiding his heart tattoo, and John wants to say something – _I did mean it like that. Do you know? I did._ – but that won’t help anything, not right now. 

“See you downstairs?” John walks closer and pulls Sherlock in. 

Sherlock gives him a soft kiss. It’s closed-mouthed, almost formal, but so gentle it makes something hurt in John’s chest. “Fifteen minutes.”

He leaves with a barely audible thud of the door, and John is left to get ready on his own. Last clean outfit he packed. Last of everything. As he showers off yesterday’s activities, then shaves and dresses, the nerves start coming in full. He needs to tattoo for one hundred thousand pounds today. The most important tattoo of his career.

Christ. 

Sherlock is waiting for him in the lobby.

He sits right where everyone has seen him wait for John every single day, and John’s aware of what that might look like, but he doesn’t care. Not today. 

They walk outside together. 

Sherlock is beside John, and that washes over him and surrounds him. It makes him feel like he’s lifted off the ground, and at the same time as if he’s more present than he has been in years. 

John feels whole. Like he’s a doctor again, like he’s worth something, walking next to Sherlock.

Like he's a _competitor_. 

 

-

 

Elimination Challenge (Day Two)

Mike allows them all to get settled in their shops with the clients again, then he says, “Three, two, one… tattoo!”

John sits down, and his arse throbs as a reminder of what he did last night. He stretches to reach for the black ink, and his muscles twang. His lips feel kissed, his while body feels wrecked, his eyes burn with lack of sleep. 

He’s not ready for this. For the final, for it to be over - any of it. 

Regardless, John pours his inks. He assembles his machine, wears his gloves, and he gets going. The skin is still visibly tender around the skulls he got done yesterday. There is a fair amount of swelling around them as well, but because John foresaw this and spread his work, it’s easy enough to apply the next stencil now. Three skulls to go. 

It’s easy enough to think while he works, too. 

He’s been selfish. Naïve. A bloody mess, that’s what he is. Cheating on his wife, and why? So he can feel how much this – John swallows. 

_What are you doing, Watson?_ With Sherlock, all of this. What does he think is going to happen? 

John adds in the detail automatically. As he works on, John’s reminded of Harry. She divorced. Or well, Clara left her, years ago now. Harry hasn’t stopped drinking since. John hasn’t talked to her in years either; she’s too bitter, too selfish. Too much like him, probably. 

He feels hung-over, in some distant way. 

Maybe he’s just wishing he could blame it all on the booze. Maybe that’s it. 

John thought this final day would feel crystal-clear in his mind, that he’d be nothing but focused on what he needed to do, but instead it’s this heavy haze. 

Too soon, Mike announces, “Time for lunch. Tattoo machines down please!”

John gives his client a quick temporary wrap on his back. The whole morning is gone, and he isn’t even close to being done. 

“Okay?” Sherlock catches his eye.

“Fine, yeah.” 

They sit close together and eat, but they don’t talk much. Janine’s having lunch with her client; they can hear them talk together, something about stealing van Eyck’s Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. Janine laughs loudly. 

“They’re getting along.” John chews mechanically. He barely tastes the sarnies. His head’s too full with everything. 

Sherlock answers easily, “Yes, she wanted a man.” 

“Wait, you set them up?” 

“Hm.” Sherlock has a sip of his drink. “Polyamorous Art History student. Thought she’d enjoy that.” 

“...right.”

When he’s done eating, Sherlock gets up, and John follows him out.

They wander a bit out of sight, behind the building. 

Sherlock’s hand trembles slightly as he takes a cigarette and lights it. It’s barely there, but it is and it feels... John swallows. _Dammit._ “How are you doing?” 

“Perfectly fine.” 

Sherlock’s work is doing fine, there’s no doubt about that. John knows Sherlock’s client will end up with a gorgeous back piece. But whether Sherlock is…

He doesn’t say any of the words, though. The ones John’s been thinking. _Don’t go back. You’re so unhappy there you’re barely alive._ John doesn’t even know whether he wants Sherlock to say anything. It’s easier if they pretend it isn’t true. 

John’s eye falls on his cane. Sherlock’s the most devastating thing that’s happened to him since getting shot, is that what he’d like to hear? John can’t say that. He doesn’t want to be told that he means nothing at all to Sherlock. That none of this did. 

Right before they enter the studio again, Sherlock says softly, “You will win, John.” 

“Yeah, you think so?” John scoffs as he looks at him. “You’re brilliant, Janine’s got a great design. We all know I’m going for third place here.” 

“You will win.” Sherlock repeats it as they walk. 

“Well then.” John sighs. “Glad you’re confident.” 

They go back to their shops. 

Mike waits until they’re set, then counts down, “Three, two, one – and for the very last time… tattoo!”

John looks at his work. He knows he can finish it, but he’ll have to be fast about it. 

The last hours of the tattoo, John focuses only on what he needs to do. He has pure tunnel vision. One line after the next, every detail is magnified for him, and he doesn’t think of anything else because there’s no space left for anything else. 

Sherlock doesn’t come by, either. Somewhere in the back of his mind John misses his presence, but he’s in no position to stop. It’s a race to the finish for all of them now. It’s just the sound of the three tattoo machines, buzzing in unison. 

Three artists, attempting to do the very best work of their careers. 

The cameras pass by regularly to film their progress as the time ticks down, but even those are mostly respectful and don’t get in the way too much. They film them wiping the tattoos, checking every line, pulling another line here and there, adding, adjusting, frantically hoping that this is good enough, and that the work will speak for itself. 

The production assistant comes by to give them a thirty minute warning. Then twenty, then ten. 

“Artists…” Mike’s voice booms, a hint of tension even there. 

John tattoos one more line, tiny, just a darker hint behind the eye sockets. 

“This is it. Your time is up. Please put your tattoo machines down.”

John turns his triple-coiled machine off. The sudden lack of buzzing feels strange, and he can still feel the rumble in his hand when he carefully sprays the freshly tattooed skin and wipes down the lymphocytes and blood.

The cameras come over, and John helps his client up to look at it. 

“Good, that.” 

John nods tiredly. He can feel the weight of all of this piling on top of him now. He made it to the final. This is what he wanted to do, but now he made it this far, he can’t be sure it’ll be enough. 

He looks at the tattoo one more time, [his illustrative black work skulls](https://www.instagram.com/p/BizgWD6Fjwa/?taken-by=j.m.mee). 

There is nothing more he can do. 

His client leaves, and John cleans off his work space. He’s not sure what to do with all of his machine parts. The pile of tissues and cling film goes in the bin, but his inks – does he need to pack them already and get his suitcase ready? There will be enough time after, won’t there? 

He leaves it all and gets up instead. John’s leg is more than stiff, he can barely bend it as he walks, but he goes to find Sherlock. “Hey, you.” 

Sherlock is cleaning off his bench, and he looks up as soon as he sees him. “John.” 

Sherlock’s voice is warm, and that alone is enough, John thinks. To see him for a bit longer, to have him here, both of them going through the exact same thing. 

“You nervous?” John asks. He isn’t, particularly. 

“While a certain amount of adrenaline can indeed enhance performance, nervousness at this point would be useless.” Sherlock says it seriously. 

John laughs. Oh, Sherlock. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

The two of them walk over to the chairs and sit down. Janine joins them, and the judges walk up, ready to start the judging for the very last time. 

Mike says, with certain seriousness, “Time to judge your tattoos, and decide who has what it takes to become… Ink Master.” 

John takes a deep breath. This is it, then. 

“Sherlock.” Mike turns to Sherlock. “You specialise in geometric and dotwork tattoos. You work from a private workspace right here in central London, in Baker Street.” 

“You first distinguished yourself in this competition by executing a difficult [black and grey scar cover-up](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfEGMFEhDPw/?taken-by=j.m.mee) with great finesse,” Irene picks in. “And your [Van Gogh](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhoyKNOl7B1/?taken-by=j.m.mee) was exemplary as well.” 

“Let’s see what you chose to show us today.” Mike smiles.

[Sherlock’s geometrical back piece](https://www.instagram.com/p/BjNwA10F4xA/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown onto the screen. 

It’s meticulous, that’s the first thing John sees. The lines on paper somehow managed to transfer to a curved body and still appear entirely perfect. The technical work needed to accomplish that alone is insane. 

“I love seeing big work like this. It’s impressive,” Mike starts off. “I think the coverage you get in this amount of time is extraordinary.”

“Very technical,” Jim says. “Near-perfect.”

“You actually pulled off a full geometrical back piece.” Irene seems proud. “There’s nothing missing here. It’s intricate, incredibly detailed, and beautifully structured.”

John feels in awe as well as they zoom in on the smaller lines. Christ, Sherlock lined an entire back _single needle_. It’s easy to forget, but Sherlock is an artist with international fame. He’s known all over the business, and for very good reason. No one does what he does the way he does it. Very few out there even could come close. 

While John is nothing. A bloke who works in his wife’s shop. 

“This looks like art, and it is, but more importantly it’s workmanship as well,” Mike says. “Any tattoo artist looking at this will know that this takes technical ability and a deep understanding of how to design a tattoo to work with the anatomy.” 

John tries to see the meaning underneath the lines. The chemical clusters are there, but they’re also hidden enough that it’s not at all obvious, like a code of some sort. None of the judges seems to pick up on it. 

“It’s a dynamic piece. It’s readable, crisp, and applied flawlessly.” Irene seems convinced. 

“Interesting choice of _topic_ , though.” Jim grins. “How did you come up with that, Sherlock?” 

“I design my bodysuits based on a variety of biological and scientific samples, then reproduce and multiply said patterns to create a design that is both factual and aesthetically pleasing.” Sherlock rattles it off.

“...Well, beautiful work,” Irene says. 

Before Jim can comment again, Mike turns to Janine. “Janine. Not only do you work as a tattoo artist at Baksheesh Ink in Clapham, you have a master’s degree in modern art, and have had several exhibitions as an Irish-Pakistani street artist here in London.” 

John didn’t even know half of that. 

“You first distinguished yourself in the very first flash challenge by tattooing [a new school pig holding an axe](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdciKsjAWO6/?taken-by=j.m.mee),” Irene says. “As well as winning a second time in the trash polka challenge with your bright and daring [Cheshire Cat](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg1TMdbhXZM/?taken-by=j.m.mee).”

“Let’s see what you chose to tattoo for the final challenge,” Mike prompts. 

[Janine’s pop art portrait tattoo of Malala Yousafzai](https://www.instagram.com/p/BiAXVWhlg9r/?taken-by=j.m.mee) is shown.

Her work is bright. John can see her modern art influences, the shapes, dots, colours, and then the image itself. Even if he hadn’t seen her paint it, John could recognise it as being Janine’s for sure. There’s a certain funny, sarcastic quality about it. She knows exactly what kind of artist she is, and she’s not afraid to stand for what she believes in. 

“Well Janine, I think you definitely hit this one out of the park. The colour play - the brightness of the colours and the juxtapositions of the cool to the warm tones - one of the nicest tattoos I’ve seen you do,” Mike says. 

“You were the only one to do colour, or a portrait,” Irene notes. “And I think it paid off. The colour choices bring this portrait to life. And the subject…” She shakes her head. “Using Malala’s image was a great idea. We can’t say that you played it safe!” 

“The look, the motion, the flow, as well as the idea. I think it’s a killer job,” Jim says. 

“And lastly… John.” John’s pretty sure he can hear more than a hint of pride in Mike’s voice. “John, you are an army doctor, a veteran wounded in Afghanistan who came to tattooing only after returning to London. You interned at my own shop, St. Bartholomew’s, and you are now working at AGRA tattoo.” 

“You distinguished yourself in this competition by winning the graffiti flash challenge, as well as the illustrative blackwork challenge where you drew [an anatomically correct heart](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bgt_G8gBBhv/?taken-by=j.m.mee) without reference,” Irene says. She smiles. “Let’s see what your back piece looks like.”

John can see his own work on the screen. It’s different to see it like this than when he was working right on top of it. He’s not sure about the cohesion, but the tattoos themselves are strong, he thinks.

“I do _love_ me some skulls,” Jim says gleefully. 

“It’s really unexpected for an old school artist,” Irene says. “Such an original approach. It’s like you threw all you knew out of the window and finally decided to tattoo as yourself.” She looks at him. “I like it.” 

Mike nods. “That’s when an artist really grows, when you know all of the fundamentals as well as John does, and then decide to push past that and create something that’s entirely your own.” 

“It was brave,” Irene says. “The risk of the contour and shape of the client’s back messing with the dynamics of the linework alone. And despite the minimal shading or light source, you have created a lot of contrast.” 

John nods numbly. Good. They didn’t hate it. But then they didn’t find fault with anyone’s today. 

Mike echoes his thoughts when he says, “All three of you are talented artists. You have proven that time and time again, and today was no different.” 

Right. 

“But only one of you has what it takes.” Mike looks stern. “Only one of you will win the cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’!” 

John shares a look with Sherlock. He seems a bit pale, but he meets his eyes without hesitation. 

“The judges have deliberated, and we have decided.” Mike has a piece of paper in his hands. “Irene, what is your choice?”

Irene sits up. “Someone who was the dark horse in this competition. This person was in the bottom several times, but they kept on fighting. They never gave up, and they never stopped believing. They ended as one of the strongest voices in this competition.” She smiles. “Janine.” 

Janine inhales loudly next to him. 

“Jim?” Mike turns towards him. “Do you agree, and did Janine’s choice of topic and her colour work win it for you?” 

“Well…” Jim laughs, a strange twist to his mouth. “No.” 

There’s a flicker of surprise on both Mike’s and Irene’s faces that is smoothed out quickly. Did they think he was going to agree? 

“I think someone else should take it. Someone who grew the most, a good competitor, nice steady hands… John.” 

“Your vote is for... John?” Mike repeats. 

“It sure is!” Jim winks at him.

Is this, is he serious? John’s not sure what to think of that. Are they going to give each of them a vote or something, the last vote will be for Sherlock then? 

Mike unfolds his piece of paper and he raises his eyebrows. He looks at the paper again, reads it, then he looks directly at John. John can feel his stomach tense. _No._

Sherlock turns his head to look at him as well, an anxious smile playing on his lips. 

“The winner of the UK’s first edition of Ink Master is...” Mike takes a breath. “John Watson.”

WHAT? John swallows.

“You are the winner of a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of...”

John doesn’t listen to it. His head is spinning. He won. He bloody won! 

Irene steps down from the podium, reaches out a hand, and says, “Congratulations!” Mike follows her, then Jim, Sherlock by his side, Janine’s there - John tries to stand, he nods and smiles and replies even though he has no idea what to say. 

“And we have one more surprise.” Mike raises his voice to be heard. “We have brought your families!”

A group of people appear into the studio - the first ones John doesn’t recognise, but then he sees Mary, running up with Rosie on her arm. Rosie is looking teary, but Mary is absolutely beaming.

“John!” She gives him a one-armed hug and says rapidly, “We watched backstage, I saw.” She shakes her head and smiles so widely, so happily. “John, you won!” 

She pulls him in for a hug again, Rosie stuck between them, and John can feel the realisation hit him again and again. He won. He _won_. 

John catches a glance of Sherlock over Mary’s shoulder – he’s with an older woman who is looking at him proudly – but Rosie starts wailing between them, clearly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd around her. 

“Here, I…” John takes her from Mary. Rosie’s warm, and John automatically shushes her while she hides her face in his shirt. 

He scans the crowd for Sherlock again, and this time John meets Sherlock’s eyes. It feels like a shot, with Rosie held close to his chest. John can feel his heart stutter. 

Sherlock nods at him, clearly. Then he walks off. 

John can feel the breath leave him. _No, don’t..._

He’s gone. 

Mike is there, talking over Rosie’s cries and Mary’s grip on his arm. “John, such good work. You surprised all of us with that last one, really solid-” 

Irene is saying, “-always had the talent, improved so much-“ 

Rosie wails against his chest, and John… He hands Rosie back to Mary. 

“I’m gonna -” John goes after Sherlock. He needs to see him. Christ, at least to say goodbye! 

John hurries through the crowd, leaning heavily on his cane. He takes the corridor towards the exit, throws the door open, but Sherlock’s not there, like he assumed. He’s not under the awning, either. Thinking about it, John’s not even sure he saw Sherlock go this way. Did he go backstage instead? 

John walks back into the studio and scans the room. 

The old woman who was with Sherlock is now happily inspecting Irene’s tattoos, John can hear her say, “I’ve got a chest piece too, you know. Sherlock did it for me.” 

Janine’s family is everywhere, Mike is tickling Rosie and trying to make her laugh, Mary looks at John oddly – but Sherlock is gone. 

John’s stomach twists sharply. He didn’t want it to go like this. He thought they’d have the whole evening to say goodbye still, he thought… 

He _didn’t_ think, that’s it. 

John tries backstage. He pushes past a door, then walks through a long corridor, not even sure what he’s looking for. Why would Sherlock have come here? John’s looking around, finding no one, when he hears the by now familiar sound of Jim’s voice behind a door. 

He’s not sure where it came from, but one door is not fully closed, so John pushes it open. He’s expecting to see Jim on the phone or something like that. 

Instead, John looks straight into a large mirror. 

Jim is there, standing up. And Sherlock is on his knees in front of him. Sherlock's head is moving back and forth, steered by Jim’s hands around his neck.

John turns around and walks off. 

He marches back into the studio. There are people everywhere, speaking to him, laughing, saying congratulations. John pays them no heed. He packs up his studio space, fast, his hands automatically dissembling his machines and sorting them into his aluminium travel case. 

Mary comes over, her voice full of concern, and he claims something – pain, need to go, Rosie needs a nap – John doesn’t even know what he says. He waves at everyone on the way out, feeling like there’s not a breath left inside his chest. Feeling like he might throw up, if he were to think on it. 

John walks out of the film studio along with Mary and Rosie, a white-hot haze around his head. 

He doesn’t look back. 

 

\---

 

It still smells like paint. 

John’s brand new shop only has the tattooing bench, so John is sitting on that. He turns his laptop off - the final episode’s over, and the credits are rolling. It’s all over now. 

John won it all. 

It’s late summer; it’s been almost five months since the competition. John walks out of his shop, locks it behind himself, and takes the tube. It’s boiling, even in the evening, but he barely feels it. 

_221b Baker Street._

All this time, Sherlock has lived only a tube ride away. But he never came, he never called. It ended right then and there with Jim, and John got that message – loud and clear. 

Or he thought that he did. But it turns out he can’t live with that. Not anymore. 

John gets out at the Baker Street tube stop and strides up to the house, his cane thudding urgently on the pavement. Number 221b. There’s no shopfront, just a doorbell shared between “Mrs. Hudson” and “Sherlock Holmes tattoos.” John rings it. 

The older woman John saw at the final opens the door. Mrs. Hudson, John presumes. Her eyes widen and she practically shouts, “John Watson!”

“Is Sherlock-” John is halfway though asking, when he hears a sound from upstairs. There are heavy thumps, then a door slamming open, and John looks up to see Sherlock appear there.

It’s like looking at a complete stranger. 

Except Sherlock says, “Go away Mrs. Hudson, _now!"_ while he hurries down the stairs as if John might disappear into thin air, and if John didn’t know it before, he knows it now. 

It’s in Sherlock’s face, when he stills in front of him. 

“You did it for me.” John thought he’d convinced himself. He thought it was just what he wanted to think, but it’s not. “Jim.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens. “John, whatever he might have told you…” 

“He didn’t tell me. I saw.” John swallows. “His dressing room.” 

“...Ah.” Sherlock looks like he has been slapped in the face. He takes a breath and says, “The competition was rigged from the beginning, I merely -”

“Yeah.” John deflates. He thought so. He knew it, really. He just didn’t want to see it. 

It’s the _why_ that John came for. Why Sherlock did all that for him, when they were never going to see each other again. Because John thinks he’s got it figured out. 

“Your back piece. Serotonin, testosterone, adrenaline, norepinephrine, dopamine, and oxytocin.” John thought it was interesting at the time, but nothing more. He didn’t think. “It’s, um, love.” He checks with Sherlock. “You tattooed love.”

Sherlock says, carefully, “Infatuation does not equal-” 

“Not infatuation.” John stands there, on the threshold, hoping that it’s not too late. “Or not for me it wasn’t.”

There’s a hope blossoming in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s a knife’s edge of want that John can feel press against his own throat as well. _Please._

“John...” Sherlock says quickly, “Tattoo my back. All of it.” 

“Do my hands,” John counters. He spent months imagining Sherlock’s work there and regretting he didn’t go for it. “My neck, too. I’m a bloody _Ink Master_ \- I can get away with it.” 

“Clearly.” Sherlock smiles, so hesitantly. 

And that’s it. John reaches out, and Sherlock meets him halfway. 

_Finally._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
